


Clean Slate

by Afrokot



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, F/M, Humor, Modern Character in Thedas, Time Travel, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 75,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afrokot/pseuds/Afrokot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clean slate (noun) — an opportunity to start over without prejudice; an absence of existing restraints or commitments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haven

I open my eyes to a picturesque sight of ruins, the edge of a hard, warm stone digging into my cheek. The air smells of smoke, fried meat, and sulphur. Not the best combination on a good day and this day is anything but. Everything — the ends of my fingernails and hair included — hurts like I went through a round with a grinder. Hope I won, but if not, I’m sure I’ve dealt enough damage for it to regret its decision to stand in my way.

A pair of armoured boots blocks the view, and a male voice says something, but I can’t understand him over the ringing of a bell orchestra in my ears. Hands pull me up, bruising the bruises on my arms, and from the new vantage point, I can appreciate the charred, still-smoking remains of a person. Instead, I pass out.

Next time the return of consciousness goes better. I jolt awake on my knees, feeling like someone has set my hand on fire and stuffed my mouth full of cotton balls. Cold seeps through the leather of my pants as I take in the small circle of the floor that doesn’t hide in the shadows. The overall level of pain has lessened significantly, and it becomes apparent that its main source resides in my left palm. Bringing it to my eyes, I stare at it, uncomprehending: everything looks absolutely fine. Then it flashes with a green light that engulfs my whole hand in an otherworldly halo and sends tendrils of agony in all directions. I double over, a wave of nausea hitting me like a sledgehammer. _Great,_ I think as the light winks out, _if nothing else, now I can moonlight as a semaphore._

The door opens, banging the wall and startling me, and in comes a woman: heavy plate armour, a badass long sword hanging at her waist, and a shield at her back; menacing as hell. Another woman follows. This one wears a coat and… is that a cowl? They glare at me. Oh, and at least two more knights (warriors? How the hell should I know? They aren’t choir boys, that’s for sure) spring out of dark corners, pointing their swords at me. Huh. I’m in a dungeon, kneeling, arms in huge manacles with a bar linking them together… It’s either a very elaborate BDSM set-up, and one of the chicks is about to bring up a whip, or I’m a prisoner. Though, the whip might come into play in any case.

The warrior woman circles me like she is a hawk and I’m a juicy little mouse. Not being able to see her is making me uncomfortable.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now?” she says next to my ear, voice demanding and forceful. Then from a little farther away, “The Conclave is destroyed.” Syllables, precise and concise, roll off her tongue with a curious accent that I can’t quite place.

She says something else, but I stop listening, too hung up on the ‘kill me now’ bit. The woman stops before me. I can barely make out the details of her face, but her frown is quite prominent. I must have missed a question because she grabs my hurting hand and says, “Explain this!”

As if on cue, the light flashes on, dialling the pain back up to ‘agony.’

It takes two tries, my throat is raw and doesn’t want to cooperate, but eventually, I grind out, “The hell is this?”

“What do you mean?”

I lick my lower lip. A sharp sting, and my tongue retreats with a coppery tang from a half-scabbed split. “I mean you’re shit outta luck. I’ve no idea what the hell it is.” I have to swallow, but speaking is getting easier.

She doesn’t like my answer, and for a moment, I fear the woman might hit me just to see if an explanation falls out like sweets from a cracked piñata, but she stays her hand. Good thing too — I’d lose a tooth to that metal gauntlet. Instead, she gets in my face, saying, “You’re lying!”

Up close I see a wicked jagged scar running from the centre of her left cheek to her jaw. The image of an eye on her chest plate glitter in the flickering torchlight.

“Shiny,” I say, and the second woman has to catch her fist before it connects with my face.

“We need the prisoner, Cassandra,” she says, towing the warrior a couple of feet away and taking her place. Under the voluminous cowl hides a pretty redhead with a musical voice and a gaze fit to cut diamonds. The same stylised image on her coat is smaller, made into an amulet. Six rays go outward from the eye, crossing the edges of a white circular plate. She moves, and her coat jingles. Huh. Apparently, it’s chainmail armour with leather inserts. Who’d have guessed? A moment later, she picks up the interrogation.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

Searching my brain for anything useful, I draw a blank. Only scraps of a feverish dream are rattling around: green fog; running from hideous bug-spider things with too many eyes to count; a woman that’s either on fire or made of light is reaching out to me, but our hands can’t connect. In a word — a nightmare.

“I remember jack shit, sweetheart. Sorry to disappoint,” I say with a lopsided grin. Her lips tighten, but she doesn’t reply, just stares at me. Then a thought chases my smile off. “I don’t even know _who the fuck am I_.”

Silence follows. Both of my interrogators watch me without blinking even once. Finally, the redhead says, “You are telling the truth.”

Upon hearing that, the rage goes out of Cassandra. She steps closer while the redhead dances away.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take the prisoner to the rift,” Cassandra says, her voice weary. She crouches next to me and exchanges the manacles with a rope.

“You didn’t say why I’m here. What did happen, exactly?” I ask, examining her hairdo in detail. A braid encircles her short, inky-black strands like a wreath, but I don’t see the beginning, nor the end of it. I’d ask her if it’s a fake, but now that Leliana is gone, she might actually punch me. Maybe later.

Cassandra ties the rope just a breath too tight and stands up, pulling me to my feet as well. “It will be easier to show you.”

I shuffle after her, keeping a respectable six feet distance and slouching to get my hands into a more comfortable position, go through the doorway, and hit it hard with something well above my head. Stars jump around, cartoon style. Fucked if I know what’s going on, but it hurts like hell nonetheless. Tentatively, I touch the affected area, and my jaw clatters on the damp cobblestones. Big fucking _HORNS_ protrude from my forehead, curling up and back. While I marvel at this revelation, running my fingers over the smooth ridges, Cassandra pauses only long enough to send a glare over her shoulder. I grind my teeth and duck to avoid the encore.

What else do I _not_ know about myself? I glance down. Huh, I’m a chick! For some reason, it comes with a distant, dull surprise, though I’m not sure why. My rack is huge. How the fuck was I missing its existence until this very moment, I have no idea.

Meanwhile, Cassandra leads me out of the basement and onto the main floor. The building turns out to be a church or a monastery of some kind. The smell of incense assaults my nose, making it twitch, and I sneeze. A set of large wooden doors opens into a snowy square, and the bright daylight, blinding after the candlelit hall, temporary robs me of sight.

The first thing that stands out when I can see again is the colour: my hands, which I used as a shield against the light, have a weird metallic tint.

“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra says, looking at the sky, and effectively draws my attention to a sickly-green vortex that hangs overhead in a ring of storm clouds, its tail lost between mountain peaks. It’s the same colour as my new personal flashlight. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour,” Cassandra continues. She turns around. “It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

Currents of energy — lightning? — run through the vortex. I expect a thunderclap, but if they make any sound, the distance swallows it before it reaches my ears.

“What the fuck do you use to blow a hole in the fabric of reality?” Somehow, I doubt that dynamite would work.

Ignoring the question, Cassandra strides to stand right before me. “Unless we act, the Breach will grow until it swallows the world.”

The energy currents in the vortex intensify, thunder booms, and the hidden light in my palm flares to life.

“Hello, pain, my old friend,” I pant into my knees, just for something to do that will take my mind off it. Not that it helps.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads, and it is killing you,” Cassandra says, emphasising her words with slashing gestures. She wears nice gauntlets, did I mention that? “It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

“And here I thought I’ve got a flashy built-in adornment,” I rasp. The prospect of dying doesn’t register, not quite yet. “Lead the way, gorgeous.”

Cassandra helps me to my feet — _again_ — and propels me down the street with a hand on the small of my back. Even with my slouched posture, she is about a head shorter.

The gathered around townspeople look at me like I’m a freak show gone wrong. Contempt twists their lips. If not for the guards, they’d sure start throwing stones. Even from afar, it’s obvious that I tower over them like a basketball player in a line of preschoolers. Let’s recap: I’m tall, grey, have horns, and, according to Cassandra, came from the realm of demons. Holy shit, I’m the devil! No wonder the folks here glare so hard.

Noticing their attention, Cassandra says, “They have decided your guilt.”

Well, _duh_.

“They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers.”

We leave the village and start on a thin, well-trodden path going up to the mountains.

“It was a chance for peace between mages and templars. She brought the leaders together. Now, they are dead,” Cassandra continues. Her voice rings with passion and crashing grief, more oppressive than a gravestone laid on your chest.

Sentinels must have seen us because as we draw near the gate, its huge doors open, presenting a view of a slightly battered bridge. A part of the right wall misses bricks and is patched with a rough palisade, more a suggestion of a barrier than a real one. Soldiers in leather armour rest on wooden crates or sit on the ground near the undamaged stone railing, nursing their injuries.

“We lash out, like the sky,” Cassandra says, and I raise an eyebrow _. Poetic._ “But we must think beyond ourselves. As she did. Until the Breach is sealed.”

She stops, blocking my way with her arm, takes another step forward, and pulls a dagger from somewhere under her shield. The blade makes a sharp sound on the way out of its hidden sheath. Cassandra turns around, and for a moment, I’m sure she is going to shove it into my guts. She doesn’t.

“There will be a trial. I can promise no more.” She grabs my wrists and cuts the rope.

I rub circulation back into my appendages. “So where to?”

“Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach. Come, it is not far.”

We walk past a man preaching about endurance to a group of men and women slowly turning blue. Another priest prays for the dead — wrapped in shrouds bodies laid in a neat row, already stiff. Cassandra issues an order, the second gate opens, and we are back on the path upwards.

Barricades and broken carts set aflame intersperse the road. A terrified soldier runs toward us, calling to the Maker to save him. The wind picks up, throwing handfuls of snow under my collar. I shudder and pull my shawl tighter. It’s damn cold here.

The vortex pulses again, starting a glowing meteor shower, although instead of rocks it sends energy balls. And here we go again: a new round of agony and knees contemplating.

Helping me up, Cassandra explains something about the size of the Breach and its connection to the appearance of smaller rifts, but the details skip my pain-addled mind without making a pit stop.

The next bridge falls through. Not by itself, obviously. Thank you, green fucking energy. Amidst the chunks of stone the size of a dining table, supply crates, and barrels, we tumble onto a frozen river. The ice cracks but, thankfully, holds. I look at the dark surface, trying to measure the depth just in case. Can’t see shit, it’s all opaque.

Cassandra spots something and shouts an order to stay behind her, and, of course, a patch of ice right before me glows green.

“Not that I mind, but there’s a fucking monster growing out of the ground.”

What’s coming out of the river is a mummified slug that was hit with the opposite of a shrink ray. It also didn’t miss out on steroids. When it stops ascending, it hulks over my not inconsiderable height without a problem. Oh, and its fashion sense is _so lacking_. Who wears a tattered corset and skirt combo in this weather?

The thing growls and slashes the air in my direction with a pair of long hands that have too many sharp claws for my liking. Right. No point in standing around, looking pretty.

Picking up a cart wheel, I throw it at the monster, turn around, and beat a hasty retreat to the nearest crate. It’s damaged due to the fall. The lid has slipped, and a bow is peeking out of the hay. I grab it — the weapon, not the stuffing — and… have no idea how to shoot. Blast.

The growling gets closer. In fact, it is _too close_ if the overpowering stench of decay is anything to go on. Damn, the monster’s fast. As I dodge its lunge, claws scrape my arm in a glancing blow. It doesn’t do a thing, my leather coat is sturdy enough to withstand attack — good to know — but shit just got serious. Not having a better idea, I brandish the bow with both hands and use it as a club. It breaks on the first hit.

“Look what you’ve done, fugly.” I jump out of the monster’s reach and throw the pieces, aiming at its middle. The first part sails overhead, but the second hits the creature in the stomach. We both pause and stare at it, I — in surprise, the monster — who the hell knows. Then it roars and lunges again. Right, the fight.

My plan is beautiful in its simplicity — turn tail and skedaddle the fuck outta here, but it hits a snag straight out of the gate. Slipping on the ice, I drop on my ass and slide to the creature’s feet, assuming it has any. If it could, I think it would snicker at my misfortune.

Radiating smug anticipation, the monster swoops — my instincts take over — and falls to the ground, twitching in the aftermath of a lightning strike.

Holy cow, I’m a mage.

“I can shoot lightning out of my fingers! I’m so _cool!_ ”

A sword plunges through the creature’s chest. Mundane red blood gushes out, and the monster dissipates into nothingness.

Cassandra’s gaze jumps from me to the broken pieces of the bow and back.

I raise both eyebrows. “What?”

She shakes her head and helps me up yet again.

“It seems I can’t always protect you.” Sighing, Cassandra picks a staff from the ground a mere foot away and hands it over. “This will serve you better.”

“Thanks, Cas.” I run my fingers over the metal cube at the staff’s upper end. “This walking stick’ll sure help.”

“I meant as a weapon against the shades.”

“Oh, a club then.” I nod. “Pretty.”

She snorts and strides away, but not before I see her fleeting smile.

Following the river, we climb over a hill and return to the road that goes between two mountains. Here and there lie bodies — mages in robes, warriors in chainmail armour, weapons discarded at their sides, never to be used by them again. Sometimes I spot a pouch and quickly pocket it, ignoring Cassandra’s looks. Their previous owners don’t need the money. I do.

The higher we are, the colder it gets. Well, no surprise here, but I’m losing the feeling in my toes. Two pillars with torches mark the start of a stairway, and I zero in on the fire, intent on warming my fingers, and completely miss a figure loitering nearby. So when a humanoid form made of sickly-green light sends an energy ball my way, it hits as intended, flying through my clothes like they aren’t here, and burns.

I scream, feeling like I’m dosed with acid, and somehow set the perp on fire. The pain lessens somewhat, and, hefting the staff in both hands, I wave it at him… her? it? doesn’t matter so long as I can kill it. Anyway, the action results in a blast of cold, which extinguishes the flames but deals some damage. I repeat the movement, adding a twirl just for kicks.

Behind me, Cassandra bellows a battle cry and, I assume, successfully finishes off her opponent because a moment later she ends mine as well.

“Take this,” she says, giving me several glass vials full of viscous, red liquid. “Drink one now, you will feel better.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Again, she ignores the nickname. She must like it, I decide.

The potion tastes bitter and slightly sour, like sagebrush with lemon. It spreads warmth through my limbs, erasing the burning sensation like it never existed. We climb the stairs and come upon ruins. Burning carts block the way to the bridge on the right.

Cassandra says, “The rift is close. You can hear them fighting. Come, we must help them!” Before I can ask, ‘Them who?’ she breaks into a run, shield, plate armour, longsword, and all. Is she a fucking terminator?

“You do that. I’ll just sit over there, next to the flaming box, thanks.” Panting, I trudge after her.

Sure enough, up ahead, near a crumbling wall, hangs a large, green crystal surrounded by mist. I’m starting to hate this colour. Beneath the rift, people are fighting monsters. We hurry to the soldiers engaged in melee attack with shades.

Cassandra cuts through the enemies like an iceberg through ocean waves. Standing little ways from the main action, a bald elf casts one spell after another in quick succession, flinging and rotating his staff around with such flourish that I instantly want to try it, too.

I swing my staff to the side, hit my ass, and drop the damned thing on my foot.

“Blast it all to hell!” I howl, jumping on my other foot and nursing my poor, hurt appendage. Evidently, this technique needs work. In slow motion in front of a mirror somewhere with no witnesses.

The mage pauses to stare at me and misses an energy ball flying at his smirking face. It hits an invisible barrier, dissipating on impact, and the elf snaps back into the fighting mode.

I join too, sending lightning, fireballs, and cold blasts left, right, and centre.

“Sorry!” Oops. Friendly fire? Not so friendly.

Eventually, we kill all shades, a bolt finishing off the last one, and the crystal overhead turns into an active portal. Baldy jumps to me, grabs my hand, and thrusts it toward the green mist. My flashlight blinks on.

“You must close the rift!” the fucker shouts.

I’ll rip his drooping ears off and feed them to the dogs if it harms me in any way. Lucky for him, the mark only tingles. The portal kind of connects with it, sucking the energy out of my palm. I will it to fuck off and mentally push it closed, pouring magic into the action. The tear in reality constricts and collapses in on itself, and I fall to my knees yet again, this time simply exhausted.

“What the fuck was that?!”

“I did nothing. The credit is yours,” the bald bastard says like it’s all sunshine and ponies, and like I’m not about to rip him a new hole.

“I apologise for the intrusion,” he continues, seeing my unrelenting glare, “but it was necessary. Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorised that it can be used to close these rifts that open in the Breach’s wake. And it seems to work.”

He says the last remark in a way that makes me feel like a lab rat that’s successfully performed a trick. I wish him to shove his theories where the sun doesn’t shine.

Baldy talks a good game, voice calm and a little sad, melancholic. His well-worn sleeveless coat is patched in places. The linen tunic underneath it went through so many washes, it surrendered all colour to a bland greyish oatmeal. Overall, he is the picture of a harmless, unassuming traveller, happy to help you out in a bind, but his eyes are cold, calculating.

“You are saying that the mark could close the Breach itself,” Cassandra says, striding to us.

“Possibly,” the elf agrees, steepling his fingers in front of his crotch. Probably, because it’s in my arm’s reach, should I decide to hit him. “It seems, you hold the key to our salvation,” he says to me.

“Good to know,” says the coolest dwarf I’ve ever seen, fiddling with his cuffs. His red shirt has an awfully deep neckline for such weather. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He turns and walks closer, revealing that his shirt is simply unlaced all the way to the green sash tied around his waist. It’s a great way to showcase his chest hair and taut stomach.

My gaze is glued to his killer abs. Can’t do anything about that, and I’m absolutely not sorry.

“Varric Tethras,” he says, stopping in front of me. I’m still on my knees, so we are face to face. Or face to chest, as it happens. That hair.

“Rogue. Storyteller.” He pauses. “Occasionally, unwelcome tagalong.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy him winking at Cas. I glance her way in time to see her grimace, then my eyes are drawn back to Varric’s stomach.

“It’s good to meet you, Varric.” You and your delectable abs.

“You may reconsider that stance in time,” says Baldy the elf.

“Aww.” Varric briefly covers his face with a hand, feigning hurt. “I’m sure we will become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

Chuckles? That works, too.

“Absolutely not!” Cassandra stalks up to him, looking down her nose, which isn’t hard, considering their height difference. “I brought you here to tell the Divine your story. This is no longer necessary, however. Your help is appreciated, Varric, but—”

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?” he says with a challenge. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore.” His voice drops to a sensual whisper. “You need me.”

“Uh.” Cas sighs and backs down, shaking her head.

Varric smiles and finally notices the direction of my gaze. “Never thought I’d say it to a Qunari, but my eyes are _up here_.”

I raise my gaze. His eyes are nice too, kind. “Your abs are _perfect_.”

“Thank you. Now, let’s help you up.”

He and the elf take Cas’ job, and now it’s Varric’s turn to stare at my navel. Man, he is short. Baldy isn’t all that tall, either. Plus he is so slight, a strong wind should knock him over. (It doesn’t, despite the wind being more than strong here.)

“My name is Solas if there are to be introductions,” the elf says. “I am pleased to see you still live.”

“Eh?”

“What he means is, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,’” Varric says, correctly interpreting the expression on my face.

“Thanks, but I’m still not reassured you aren’t a creeper,” I say to Solas the Bald and possibly Bold.

“Oh, he most assuredly isn’t.” Varric smiles. “Chuckles here is as benign as they come. He poured so much magic in you, I’m surprised you aren’t in good health.”

“Healing magic and minor wards aren’t strong enough to undo the damage. I fear you are past the point where those will help you.”

I snort. “Yeah, I feel like shit, no denying that.”

Solas nods. “Cassandra, you should know the magic involved here is unlike any I’ve seen. Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it difficult to image any mage having such power.”

“Understood.” Cas inclines her head. “We must get to the forward camp quickly.”

“Before it kills me and my usefulness expires,” I mutter.

“Don’t be so glum, Shiny,” Varric says. He sighs and goes for his crossbow. “Well, Bianca’s excited.”

“She is a beauty.”

“That she is,” Varric agrees with a chuckle.

Cas leads us off the road and down the riverbank, saying that the way ahead is blocked, and a thought crosses my mind. “Where are all those soldiers that fought demons with us?”

“They went to scout ahead,” Cas says.

“I hope they’ll clear the way.”

And maybe they did. We don’t see any bodies, but soon, we have to stop and kill more demons. However, with Varric and Solas, it goes fast and easy. Bianca is _deadly_. I take careful notes of what Baldy is doing and try to imitate the effect. An invisible cocoon spreads over us, blocking attacks for a time, and I add a barrier to my slowly expanding spell collection.

“So. _Are_ you innocent?” Varric asks when we brave another long stairway, a pillar with a torch in it is our distant beacon.

My foot slips on the iced step, but he catches me before my face can be rearranged.

“Of what?”

“Blowing up the Conclave, of course. Or are there any other accusations flung your way?”

“Nah, ‘don’t know’ to both questions. I don’t remember anything.”

“That’ll get you every time.” He chuckles. “Should’ve spun a story.”

“That’s what _you_ would have done,” Cassandra says, and I imagine her brows come together in a disapproving scowl.

“It’s more believable,” Varric says. “And less prone to result in premature execution.”

Cas’ scowl intensifies, I can tell without looking.

We reach the pillar and stop to deal with demons and shades. Combat magic is _great_ for killing. I’m getting the hang of it and now and then strike the ground, which sends _two_ cold blasts out of my staff. It looks pretty, and I’m absurdly proud of it. Then Baldy twirls his staff — man, does it sound dirty — and sends _four._ Uh! Can’t stand to be outdone, that one.

“I hope Leliana made it through all this,” Cassandra says when the fight is over.

Varric sighs. “She is resourceful, Seeker.”

“We will see for ourselves in the forward camp. We’re almost there,” Solas says.

“I hate these endless stairways,” I say because I do and also because it feels appropriate to add something.

This mountain climbing is a dreadful business. Even snow-covered evergreen plants that grow here — pines, firs, some kind of shrub — fail to cheer me up. We come up a hill, and Cas states the obvious.

“Another rift!”

It’s hanging right before a gate. Soldiers are fighting demons and shades… I get a deja vu, all of a sudden.

“We must seal it! Quickly!” Solas says. What’s up with them playing Captain Obvious, I wonder?

Still, the mark turns on, and I stick my hand into the mist, surrounding the crystal. _Ping-ping-ping-connect._ This time, my action only disrupts the rift, and that somehow stuns the monsters. Huh. I send a blast of cold their way, wait till the rift is active, and try again, but get the same result — stasis. Eventually, it closes, but only when all demons have perished and I’ve cursed a blue streak.

Cradling my arm, I catch my breath on the ground. The pain in my palm’s literally killing me, and this rift-closing business is highly _unpleasant_.

“We are clear for the moment.” This time, Solas helps me up by himself. He is surprisingly strong. “Well done,” he says, and I feel more inclined to like him.

“Whatever that thing on your hand is, it’s useful,” Varric says, joining us, and together, we go through the gate.

The forward camp is on a bridge. I should have guessed. It’s not all that different from the one back at the edge of Heaven. Dead bodies are absent, a table with an open supply box next to it stands in their place, and another one is a little farther ahead with a tent set behind it. Aside from that, nothing drastically new is present. It’s a letdown, though I’m not sure what exactly I expected.

Cassandra leads me to that second table. Leaning on it is a man in a clerical garb, who argues with Leliana. His voice is loud and indignant, a counterpoint to Leliana’s deadly calm.

“Ah! Here they come,” the man says, straightening.

“You’ve made it.” Leliana is a lot more welcoming. “Chancellor Roderick —” she turns her head to him slightly, a gesture of acknowledgement “— this is—”

“I know who she is.”

Oh, I’m famous. Isn’t it great? And I know who _you_ are — a rude asshole.

The Chancellor orders to ship me off to Val Royeaux, wherever the hell it is, for execution. I don’t like his words, nor his tone or his face. And his stupid hat makes him look like a penguin.

Cassandra disagrees with him, and they start arguing.

This sanctimonious prick can go fuck himself with a spear. As for me, a lie down is in order. I’m cold, tired, and hurt all over. _What the hell!_ _It’s time to grant my wishes._ I sit on the stone bench near the table. The view from this bridge is worth the climb: white peaks, ancient ruins, buildings on fire, a silhouette of a temple up high on the mountain, flashing with sickly light green vortex… Spectacular.

My ass is well on the way to becoming one with the bench when the Breach contracts. Predictably, the mark reacts with a fresh bout of agony. As if I haven’t had enough for one day. Gritting my teeth, I endure.

After a while, I notice that everybody is watching me with an air of expectation. Even Varric and Solas, who have been observing the discussion in silence.

“Um?”

“How do _you_ think we should proceed?” Cas says.

“Eh?” I know, I know, my eloquence has no bounds.

“We should charge with the main forces,” Cas says.

“Or you can take the mountain path.” Leliana points somewhere up. “It will lead to the Temple of Sacred Ashes much more safely.” She gives me a long, evaluating look and adds, “There you can close the Breach and rest.”

Rest sounds good. “Whichever is quicker.”

“Then we charge.” Cassandra nods with approval. “Leliana, bring everyone left in the valley. _Everyone_.”

The camp buzzes with sudden activity, people running around, issuing commands, and soon, we are heading out. The road narrows, the wind here is piercing, and I’m slightly concerned someone is going to fall into the chasm below, but we make it to the platform before another gate — more elaborate, and also more battered — without casualties.

Soldiers that came with us join those that waited here, regroup, and open the doors to a scorched wasteland. Huge lumps of rock stick out of the ground like enormous black teeth. After a moment, I realise that these are chunks of the temple merged together by the heat of the explosion. We are looking at the crater. Oh. It wasn’t a gate. Just a door with a part of an outer wall.

From here, I can see where the end of the vortex’s tail dives into the ruins, we are _that_ close. I’d stand and gawp some more, but first, I need to deal with the rift that’s hanging a little way ahead.

“How many rifts are there?!” Varric says from my left.

“I’d like to know it, too,” I say, going for my staff.

“Wraiths,” Solas says, naming the green, glowing figures that pour out of the portal. “You need to close it.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Jumping from the remains of the floor and into the crater, our troops join the already fighting soldiers, and I hurry to do my part. Of course, as soon as I near the rift, all nearby demons decide to attack _me_ , abandoning their opponents.

“I’m a demon catnip,” I mutter, casting a barrier and backing away before they complete the circle. Thankfully, Cas, Varric, and Solas take them off my hands so I can disrupt the rift in relative peace. I have to do it several times, then it finally snaps closed, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Sealed, as before,” Solas states the obvious. “You are becoming quite proficient at this.”

“Aw, thanks.” I flutter my eyelashes. “Compliments will get you into my good book in no time.”

Varric snorts at Baldy’s long face. “Let’s hope it works on the big one.”

I glance around over the heads of my vertically challenged companions — compared to me, they all are — and see a man with a funny cloak. Coupled with his blond hair, its reddish fur reminds me of a lion’s mane.

The man walks to us with the accompaniment of warriors. “Lady Cassandra, you managed to seal the rift?” He nods, his polished chest plate glints in the light of the vortex. “Well done.”

“Do not congratulate me, Commander.” Cas sighs. “This is the prisoner’s doing.”

“Is it?” Eyebrows go up, the man turns and gives me a once-over, pausing on the staff at my back. The hand he keeps on the hilt of his sword twitches, drawing my attention. It is a _large_ sword.

“I hope they are right about you. We lost a lot of people getting you here,” he says, frowning. An old, well-healed scar connects his right cheek and upper lip, runs over it. His eyes are the colour of golden honey. _If I swoon, will he catch me?_

Snapping my mouth shut, I swallow and hope there’s no drool anywhere. I school my features into an appropriate expression and say, “I will do my best, _Commander_.” My throat still hurts, and I sound kind of husky.

His tone is milder when he says, “That’s all we can ask.” He turns to Cassandra, an obvious dismissal. “The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”

“Then we must move quickly. Give us time, Commander.”

“Maker watch over you,” he says, glancing at me. “For all our sakes.”

We part ways. Dreamy walks back to the doors, taking the soldiers with him. The injured are helped, the fallen left — for now.

Cassandra touches my arm, distracting me from watching their departure. “We should hurry.”

Picking our way around debris — parts of support beams, stone walls, bannisters — we come closer to the eye of the explosion. It is a mess. The corpses are still here, burning, kneeling, arms held over their heads, mouths open in silent screams. Even in death, they are stuck in the final moments of their lives.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas says.

And Varric whispers on the exhale, “What’s left of it.”

The stench wakes a memory, just as Cassandra says, “That is where you walked out of the Fade, and our soldiers found you.” Her voice is quiet like she doesn’t want to disturb the dead. “They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

Perhaps, it’s my imagination, but I taste ash and sulphur at the back of my throat.

Cas leads us to an opening that goes down, into the temple proper. The crunching of rubble under our boots is obnoxiously loud. We round a corner and come to our destination. Before us, in the deepest part of the crater, stands a lone column that glows ominous red and above it… The vortex’s tail ends in the biggest rift I’ve seen.

“The Breach _is_ a long way up,” Varric says, turning around to take it all in as he walks.

“You’re here!” Leliana’s voice comes from behind us. “Thank the Maker.”

She brought a group of archers with her, but they don’t hold my attention for long. It goes back to the rift. The holes I’ve snapped before are tiny in comparison. This is going to take a lot more energy. Maybe more than I have.

In the background, Cassandra issues orders, then — the sound of footsteps. I stare at the Breach, transfixed, and slowly come to the realisation that I might not come out of this ordeal alive.

Cas stops before me, not quite blocking the view. “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

I snort. “Guess it’s too late to say, ‘Fuck it! I quit.’” My lips twist in a lopsided grin though I don’t find the prospect of dying funny. “Let’s do it, gorgeous.”

“This rift was the first,” Solas says. “It is the key. Seal it, and perhaps it will close the Breach.”

“Should be easy as pie, eh?” I shrug and start the walk to my doom.

As I pick my way down, jumping over obstacles, an echoing male voice says, “Now is the hour of our victory.”

“I sure hope so.”

“Bring forth the sacrifice,” it continues.

“Fuck you very much, I’d rather kill you myself, shit-face.”

“I do not think he hears you,” Solas says, an amused smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. “More likely, it is an echo of a past event.”

I stick my tongue at him.

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra asks.

“At a guess? The person who created the Breach,” Solas answers.

A sparkling, red outgrowth blocks the way. It gives off a strange vibration that I feel in my bones. Scary as hell.

“You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker,” Varric says in a flat tone.

“I see it, Varric.”

“We _all_ do,” I say. “Why is it here? Somehow, I doubt it was in the original design.”

“Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple,” Solas says. “Corrupted it.”

“It’s evil. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

Varric’s warning is unnecessary — I’ve already stopped, having no desire to go anywhere near it. I like my lyrium blue, thank you very much. Even if it can replenish my mana, I’d rather burn out than willingly poke this red stuff with my staff. Heh. It would be funnier if I were a man because _staff_.

“Keep the sacrifice still,” the creepy fucker booms out of the blue, and I wince.

A woman screams, “Someone, help me!”

Cassandra gasps. “That was Divine Justinia’s voice.”

“The fuck’s going on here? What the hell are you doing, creep?!” I say with the same echo-y resonance. Curiously, my mouth is closed.

“That was _your_ voice,” Cassandra says, looking at me.

“Seriously? I’d never guess.”

“Most Holy called out to you,” she says, her features rearranging into a lost expression, “but…”

Trying to find another way down is pointless. I’m already tired of running around the balcony that surrounds the crater below, so I backtrack a bit and vault over the rails, jumping to the lowest floor. “Breach, here I come!”

As if answering me, the rift greets us with a flash and — I blink involuntary tears and the temporary blindness away — presents a ghostly image of a woman in a _really tall hat_ suspended in the air by magic. Red energy swirls around her arms, keeping them stretched, and a silhouette falls over her. That’s Justinia, I take it. For a devout head of the Chantry, she doesn’t seem happy with the perspective of facing her Maker so soon. Instead, she is terrified.

Appearing on the ghostly scene, I say to a shadowy figure, whose eye sockets glow with the same magic that holds the Divine, “The fuck’s going on here? What the hell are you doing, creep?!”

“Run while you can! Warn them!” the Divine shouts, and my opinion of her goes up. She didn’t ask to save her but thought of other people, now blown up along with the temple.

“We have an intruder,” the villain says. His silhouette points at me-in-the-past. “Slay the Qunari. Now.”

Another flash, and the movie is over. Well, that cleared it: I’m neither a terrorist nor a mass murderer. _Nice_.

“You _were_ there!” Cassandra whirls so fast, I’m surprised she doesn’t get whiplash. Her eyes are wide and bright. “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…” Cas trails off, starts again. “Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

I soften my voice as much as I’m currently able. “I don’t remember anything. I’m sorry, Cas.” I really am.

“Echoes of what happened here,” Solas says under his breath. He raises his voice to a normal volume. “The Fade bleeds into this place. The rift is not sealed, but it is closed, albeit temporarily.” He goes on, at length, proposing a safe way to resolve the situation, which boils down to reopening the thing and snapping it shut for good. There’s only one hitch.

“More demons. Lovely.” Well, nothing to be done about that, aside from the obvious. Cas shouts to the soldiers to get ready, and I do the opposite of what I want. I open the rift. It gathers the energy and hurls a fucking armoured barn at us.

“Bigger hole, bigger monster. Figures.” The creature has horns, too. Maybe we are related?

Cassandra’s fair skin loses all colour. “Pride demon!”

The creature roars and lunges.

“I bet it’s so angry because it couldn’t get through a smaller rift to play with the others, eh?” I say, advancing to the rear. I didn’t sign up for getting smashed.

From the relative safety of the balcony, archers fire a volley, and the demon laughs. I could have lived without hearing that sound. The monster’s hide is too thick for arrows to penetrate, and it swats them like flies. Solas casts frost over its leg, and with a battle cry, Cassandra charges, bashing the demon with her shield. She must seem like a yapping dog to this fucking _enormous_ powerhouse.

While everyone is busy, I get close to the rift and disrupt it, and the mist surrounding the crystal turns into an opaque block.

The demon freezes, paralysed. Cas orders the archers to attack, saying, “It is vulnerable now!”

All melee fighters hack away at its legs since nobody can get any higher than its knee. Even Cas, tall as she is, barely reaches past the knee cap.

Too soon the rift activates again, spitting a contingent of smaller demons. In retaliation, no doubt. The pride demon unfreezes and fetches two glowing electric whips out of thin air. The shit we are swimming through just rose to the waist level.

I spend some time dodging shades, wraiths, and insect-like horrors, fighting them all at once and without making a dent in their population. My mana isn’t infinite, sadly. Then Solas and Varric finally come to my rescue, covering me with a barrier and by bolt- and spellfire. Wasting no time, I pour energy into the rift, but a crack of a whip near my toes breaks my concentration. The pride demon lumbers my way, and I beat it and hide behind the pillar, lyrium growing from it be damned.

Here I start another round of ‘snap the hole.’ My outstretched arm is trembling, and I put most of my weight onto the staff, propping myself up. Time to end this circus while I can. _If_ I can. The mark connects with the rift, and I stuff everything I’ve got into it — magic, energy, hatred, death threats, curses, fear… I don’t hold back. I feel more than see the edges constrict, the rupture getting smaller ever so slightly. Pressure builds in my head until all I can hear is the sound of my heartbeat, too fast and erratic. I’m giving all of myself to the task, and it is not enough. Of course, it isn’t.

This rift is a black hole that’s sucking me whole through my palm. Sweat beads on my face, runs down my back. I wipe the moisture under my nose with my right hand, forgetting about the staff, and almost brain myself. Still, I manage to avoid unnecessary injuries (self-harm so isn’t my thing, it’s on the other side of the galaxy). My fingers come away stained with blood.

From a far away point, Cassandra shouts, “Now! Seal the rift!” Her voice is tiny, overlapped by the ringing in my ears.

A flash of thought: it is killing me. I’m going to die here, in this ruined temple, having no idea who the fuck I am. Well, at least, I’ll do it playing the hero. They’d better sing a ballad in my honour and erect a statue or two of me giving this fucking crystal the finger. In solid gold. That image cheers me up, so with one final push, I fling all that’s left into the connection, hoping it won’t be in vain. Dark spots crowd my vision, displacing the green. My heart, ready to burst from my chest, skips a beat. Everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with the bow is inspired by [An Abomination, Grand Cleric Elthina's Murderer and the Herald of Andraste walk into a Bar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2765348/chapters/6201332) by Sijglind. What are you waiting for? Go check it out!


	2. Haven

Waking up is a… ah-ha, no, not a surprise. It is the most natural action to do first thing after falling asleep. The bed is cosy and warm, if too lumpy and hard, but I’m willing to overlook minor inconveniences. I’m generous to my surroundings that way, especially half-asleep and still a little tired. I snuggle into the rough linen of the pillowcase and hear a door creak.

“Ngh. Ten more minutes.”

“Oh!” Something clatters to the floor, and a tremulous voice says, “I didn’t know you are awake, I swear!”

Well, shit. Now I _have_ to get up. If only just to look at the poor bugger who’s about to piss himself at the thought of waking me. I roll to the side and sit up, rub my face with one hand while the other serves as a prop to keep me more or less upright. My head aches. I have a chunk of swiss cheese for memory and a scrambled egg for a brain, and I hate mornings. _Huh, one more thing I know about myself._

The sight of my sleep-addled mug must be a real treat, for my visitor gulps.

“Relax, will ya?” I say, finally taking in my surroundings.

Going by the wood panelling, decorated with pelts at random places, I’m in a cabin. The main room is fairly spacious and houses a fair bit of shoved to the walls furniture. Bookcases frame a wide archway leading to a small corridor. A tiny round table and a chair are at the foot of my bed, which sits in the corner, and a barrel plays the role of a nightstand. Rustic charm in full swing. A fireplace? _Nice._

The elven… boy? Girl? Yeah, definitely a girl — or rather a young woman, if her ample bosom is anything to go on — has backed up to the door. A stack of towels lies in a sad, fluffy pile smack dab in the middle of a thick red rug covering a part of the stone floor. The woman is ready to bolt.

“I don’t bite. Much.” I smirk.

A huge raven, locked in a cage that stands in the farthest left corner, caws, and the elf jumps. I blink. She is prostrated on the floor. _Teleportation?_

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant,” the woman says. Words tumble out of her mouth in an unstoppable current with hardly any pauses for breath. “You are back in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.”

I glance at said hand, and it winks at me with a short, green flash. Thank all that holy, unholy, and everything in between, it doesn’t hurt anymore. “Groovy.”

The woman looks up but ultimately ignores the unfamiliar colloquialism. “It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.”

I nod and _hmm_ as coffee cups dance salsa with egg sandwiches before my eyes. _Ah, food._

The woman stands up but stops halfway to a straight posture and kinda crab walks away. “I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve awakened. She said, ‘At once.’ She’s in the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor.” The door snaps behind her a moment later. That was… interesting.

Sighing, I get up. I figure that if I dawdle too long, Cas will dispatch a company of heavily armoured soldiers to drag me to the meeting with that lovely chap, Roderick, and I’d like to wear something more substantial than funny underwear. Speaking of which. My boobs look great even wrapped in an ugly binding. I jump, and they jump too, but not as much as I expect. This thing will provide adequate support in case of running. Not that I plan on it, but I have a feeling I won’t be able to predict how my days will turn out or where they will take me by dinner time for the foreseeable future. Call it a premonition or gut instinct, if you will.

Poking around, I find several bottles of healing potion underneath the towels that hid a small wooden crate from view and take a swig. The lingering pain disappears as close to instantly as it can. My clothes, cleaned and patched up by someone’s deft hands, wait in a wardrobe near the exit. The stitches are done incredibly well, and I make a note to thank whoever did them.

I’m half surprised to find no indoor plumbing. The other half offers an image of an outhouse like it’s no big deal. Scratching behind a horn, I look at the next best thing, the same half insists: a chamber pot. The height of luxury. _Right._ The contradictions in my head don’t make any sense, and so I give up on trying to reconcile them. Better to simply roll with it, at least, for now.

A quick wash in a basin, and I’m ready to face the world. I throw open the door, take one decisive step outside, and someone walks right into my chest.

“Oh!” Cullen staggers back and looks up, his eyes widening.

“Lovely morning, Commander.” My lips twitch as I suppress a grin. He smells of fresh sweat and steel, with an underlying note that I can’t name. It’s pleasant. I want to cuddle up under his arm in front of a fireplace and watch… something. The idea slips like an eel through my mental fingers and falls into the void that hosts all personal information.

Cullen smoothes his hair and valiantly pretends that his face didn’t have a close and personal contact with my boobs just moments ago. He clears his throat. “I suppose it is.”

If anyone’s willing to wager, I’d bet a pretty penny that were we any closer, I’d feel the heat radiating from his flaming cheeks.

“My apologies, my lady. I wasn’t expecting you to be up.”

 _O-kay._ “So it’s ‘my lady’ now, not a prisoner.”

“You are not a prisoner anymore.” Cullen shrugs with one shoulder, not meeting my eyes. “I would like to escort you to the meeting with Lady Cassandra. Please, come this way.”

As he steps aside, I’m presented with an unexpected picture. Two men in chainmail armour standing before a short staircase form the beginning of an honour guard. Following them are scouts in leathers and furs, fringing both sides of the road, and behind them loiter the villagers. All as one, they salute me, closed fists of their right hands touch their hearts. In total silence. Seriously, I can hear Cullen’s heartbeat and, of course, the crunching of snow beneath our boots, and a distant, rhythmic clang of metal that’s coming from either a forge or a training field, which are nowhere in sight.

I nod and, imagining myself a queen, saunter down the stairs. Cullen keeps half a step behind. I feel the weight of reverential stares like it’s a physical thing. These people were ready to lynch me only three days ago, and now I’m their what, religious icon? New hope?

Finally, a man says, “It’s the Herald of Andraste! They said when she came from the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over her,” only to be shot down with, “Hush, we shouldn’t disturb her!”

It occurs to me that I can easily sell even the most outrageous bullshit with the label of prophecy. A war in a century, a flood in seventy years, falls of empires, and the rise of unorthodox arts… The possibilities are endless.

My house is close to the gate, in the lower part of Haven, so we need to walk through the whole village — up a staircase and past a tent camp set in the middle of a square where Varric is warming his hands over a huge bonfire. I wave. He reciprocates, smiling, and I start toward him to say hello, but Cullen touches my elbow, saying, “We are awaited at the meeting, my lady,” and we resume the correct course.

This time, I have the opportunity to study the Chantry in all its imposing glory as it looms over the village’s one-storey buildings like a giant over an ant. It reminds me of a severe matron ready to take misbehaving parishioners to heel. The first word that pops in mind is forbidding. When we get close, I look up and even with all my not inconsiderable height feel dwarfed and insignificant. I guess it’s fitting: in the eyes of their absent god, my life doesn’t matter.

A group of clerics and chantry sisters has congregated nearby. Worry lines settle deeper on their faces as they discuss the latest news from Chancellor Roderick: the Chantry in Orlais washed its hands off them.

Cullen pulls the massive double doors adorned with the tarnished sunburst emblem open, and the smell of incense wafts out. Compared to the bright sunny morning, the entrance is gloomy and dank, and walking in feels like going into an open maw of a hungry beast. I expect to hear rumbling, but there are only distant shouts, barely perceptible over the distance.

Now that I’m not rushed, I take a moment to appraise the interior. Tall archways line both sides of the hall. It’s hard to tell where most of them lead. Dividing them are tall stone pillars with a statue of a toothy dog sitting atop each. Somehow, I’m not surprised to see a mabari here. _Fereldans, eh._ Mounted on pillars with bulky braces torches give just enough light to see the outlines of a domed ceiling overhead, but its highest point is lost in the darkness. Here and there, candles sit right on the floor, clustering around a barrel or a chair. The grand hall is deserted, and if not for the voices, I’d think it completely empty. Home of the Maker, indeed.

As we get closer to the middle of the blood red carpet that runs through the whole Chantry, the sounds grow louder, and soon our destination becomes apparent. We are to enter the farthest room and bear witness to a pissing contest where Chancellor Roderick is so outmatched, it’s not even funny.

Ten feet to the target, Cullen sighs in a half-resigned, half-exasperated fashion, and I conclude that he has finally picked up on the goings-on. Apparently, my hearing is _a lot_ sharper than his. If this Herald business doesn’t pan out, I can be a super spy! Or a journalist. Or even a professional blackmailer.

While I debate the merits of throwing the oaken door open and jumping inside, screaming, “Tax inspection!” Cullen plays the gentleman again and opens it for me.

The tableau before us is a slightly distorted mirror image of my first meeting with the Chancellor: cool as still waters on a winter night, Leliana is leaning on a large, sturdy table that dominates the better part of the room while Roderick is on its side, his face flushed. The only real difference is that Cas is here, too. I missed her forceful attitude and disapproving glares.

“Ah, my perfect scapegoat! Seize her and tie a bow on the horns!” Chancellor says to the hulking guards in plate mail who prop the walls on either side of the doorway.

Cassandra straightens from her perusal of a large book that would make Thesaurus cry with envy, waves a gauntleted hand. “Fuck off, you self-important asshole. Kiddies, time for you to play outside.” And the guards leave the room, their footsteps clank-clank-clanking in a perfectly synchronised rhythm.

“She is my ticket to the next promotion!” Roderick’s eyes bulge out, kind of like those dolls you squeeze for stress relief. Looks like his blood pressure went through the roof and is still raising. It’s a bit worrying because I don’t want him to have an aneurysm or something. The Herald of Andraste caused the Chancellor to drop dead just by being in her presence? That would look bad for the masses. On the other hand, it can be the Maker’s retribution for trying to get me executed. I can definitely work with that.

“Nobody cares,” Cas grinds out through her tightly clenched jaw. “We have more important thing to do than pander to your ego.”

“The horned menace still lives, why is that?” Roderick wheels on me.

“Go fuck yourself with a pike,” Cas says before I can do it myself, and Leliana joins the conversation.

“Someone blew up the Divine, someone close to her.” Her eyes narrow to slits. “Was it you, Roddie? Did you think she wasn’t paying you enough attention? Were you _jealous?_ ”

I feel like I’m in a Freud Hour Show, to be honest, where everyone’s citing only parts of the script. Cullen shifts his weight from foot to foot. His stomach makes a quiet noise of complaint. He must be hungry after his morning workout.

“That’s— That’s preposterous!” Rodadick sputters, meanwhile. “We were, like, best of pals!”

Leliana crosses her arms. “Nobody is beyond suspicion. You could have plotted her demise all this time. Maybe you want to overthrow the system? Became the first Archon outside of Tevinter?”

“Me, working with those cocksuckers, and the horned beast is an innocent? Are you mad, woman?!”

Cas crowds him, going all in-your-face and looking down her nose. It’s an easy fit since she’s about five inches taller than the Chancellor. “I heard Most Holy call out to her for help. She gets a free pass.”

Roderick crosses his arms, too. “So her involvement and survival are a big fucking coincidence?”

“Providence.” Cas’ voice drops to a milder and reverential pitch that I don’t appreciate at all. The pitch, not the voice, which I like just fine. “The Maker sent her to us in our hour of need to waddle through fucktons of bullshit and solve our petty problems.”

“And if anything goes wrong, we can always blame her later,” Leliana mutters out of the corner of her mouth. Or so I imagine. “The Breach remains, and her mark is the only way of closing it,” she says aloud.

Roderick’s arms fall to his sides, and in a futile attempt to seem more imposing, he puffs out his chest. “Who died and made you king?”

Cas takes another tome — smaller but packed with so many pages, it would require both hands to measure its width — from a bookcase and drops it on the table. It makes a satisfying thump, and Chancellor, distracted by his staring contest with Leliana, flinches.

“The Divine wanted us to gather our own party, with blackjack and hookers,” Cas says, pointing at the image of an eye with sun rays decorating the cover. “We are going to call ourselves the Inquisition, like in the good ol’ times. Deal with it.”

She stalks to him, saying, “We are going to close that fucking hole in the sky, off the hordes of demons, find the real perpetrator and make him eat his intestines, whether you agree or not.”

By the end of her speech, the Chancellor has backed up all the way to the door, and now he is looking from face to face, seeking support and not finding any. His lips press into a thin line, and with a slight shake of his head, he walks out, to steer all kinds of trouble, no doubt.

That was not what they actually said, but it’s what I heard anyway. I don’t mind to pass the time in my head while being ultimately ignored and treated like a part of the furniture, you know. Not that anyone can realistically ignore my presence for long. The door bangs behind the Chancellor, and I get down from my rainbow and dive back into reality. A stone figure of Andraste watches us with unseeing eyes from a shadowed alcove. She has a shield in her hands and a halo over her head, and as the torchlight flickers, disturbed by the air currents, she seems sad.

I clap my hands and give them a winsome smile. “So. Good morning?”

“Hello, Herald.” Leliana smiles too, but hers is a lot more narrow. “I see your health is restored.”

“Mm-hmm. Glad to see you alive, Cas.” Last time I saw her, she was pummelling a huge-ass demon. Anything could have happened after that.

For a moment, Cas looks perplexed, but then her expression clears and softens. “And I you.”

I feel like it would be appropriate to cue background music, something light and melancholy, as we stare into each other’s eyes, but before I can start humming, a new person walks in, breaking the mood.

“Oh, you are here!” A woman in the most elaborate dress I have seen so far appears in my line of vision. Rich golden and deep blue hues complement her swarthy skin and dark, soulful eyes. She stops and gives me a curious once-over.

“I thought you’d be taller.”

And I thought I’d never smell someone so pleasant in this shit creek. Seriously, she is the first woman here who literally smells like roses. Perfumed oils, I think. Leliana doesn’t have any distinct odour, oddly enough, and Cas smells mostly of steel, leather, and sweat, which is fairly common around these parts. I want to bury my nose in this newcomer’s hair and just breath for a while, until I’m either inured to the smells outside, or my olfactory system stops working.

“ _Hell-lo_ , there. Please, tell me something else.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Doesn’t matter as long as you are talking. You have the loveliest accent, dearest.” She does. “I can listen to you for hours.” She can recite multiplications, and they will sound sexy. With these rolling r’s, everything will.

She blinks. “Ah, thank you, Herald. You will like Antiva, then. It is where I am from.”

“This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat,” Cassandra says, steamrolling over the awkward moment when it’s clear that Josephine doesn’t know how to react to my bluntness. “You already know me and, I assume, Commander Cullen since he is the one who escorted you here.” She gives him a reproachful look, layered with meaning, but without context, I don’t have a sliver of hope of interpreting it.

“We—” Cullen clears his throat. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”

All three women look at him with identical expressions of incredulity on their faces. It’s hilarious. Cullen avoids their scrutiny, turning to me instead.

“I’m the leader of the Inquisition forces, such as they are. We lost a great number of soldiers, and I fear we will lose a lot more before this is through.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, and Cas moves along with the introductions.

“And, of course, you know Sister Leliana.”

“The spymaster,” I say. All eyes zero in on me.

“Yes,” Leliana says after a moment. Her relaxed posture doesn’t change, but I get the feeling that she is on high alert. “But how would you know that?”

“Lucky guess?” I have no idea. “You look the part.” I shrug. “So what’s with this Inquisition business? Are we a new force on the field?”

“Essentially, yes,” Leliana replies, still studying me with undivided focus. “The purpose of the Inquisition was always to restore order. It preceded the Chantry, and eventually formed the Templar Order.”

“But the templars have lost their way,” Cas says. “We need people who know what must be done to unite under the same banner once more. Divine Justinia wanted us to restore order, and for that, we need independence.”

“A- _Okay_ , and you still want my help.”

Cas nods. “The Breach is only stabilised. Without you, we won’t be able to close it, and even now it needs more power to do so. We face many enemies and have few friends. It won’t be easy, but that is what right.”

Eh, what the hell. I have no other plans or commitments. At least, as far as I remember, hehe. “Sounds good. What’s the plan?” I hope this job pays well.

“We will make an official announcement and reconvene later,” Leliana says, materialising a scroll out of somewhere. “You are free to explore the village. I will find you when you are needed.” And doesn’t it sound ominous. I fight not to show a shiver that makes rounds over my body as my hair suddenly stands on ends.

The meeting adjourned, Cullen takes the honour of nailing the decree to the Chantry door, onlookers gathering like flies over a fresh corpse. I look at the sky. High overhead hangs the Breach. Dormant, it looks like a small, green planet with a visible orbit. Beautiful in a way, but deadly.

His task done, Cullen walks away, and I trail behind him like a faithful puppy.

“Something you need, my lady?” he asks, stopping in front of the stairs and noticing that I’m not going anywhere.

 _Many things, so many different things, you can’t even imagine._ “How about we start with breakfast and go from there?”

“I’m not—” He means to say, ‘hungry,’ but his stomach rumbles especially hard, and Cullen sighs. “All right. You need to know where the tavern is anyway.”

The answer to that is ‘halfway to the front gate.’ It’s a tall building standing to the left of the central staircase. The door guard — you can guess it — two carved mabaris, their wooden snouts pointing at the sky. Inside, the red velvet upholstery of the wooden furniture and the warmth emanating from the fireplace create a cosy atmosphere. Noticing the smells of cinnamon and milk, I smile.

Despite the relatively early hour, the tavern is nearly full. At the longest table, a company drinks their way into oblivion, and a burly man snores into his bowl, already having reached it, his ruddy cheek peeking out of the thicket of his facial hair is flecked with small grey lumps.

Cullen introduces me to a cute redhead, the owner of the place, and the first words out of her mouth are,

“Welcome to the Singing Maiden, Herald.”

Inevitably, my gaze darts to the bard, singing about a Circle of Magi, something about enchanters. She has a fine, melodic voice and plays on her lute quite well. Turning around, I tune back into the conversation in time to catch the tail end of, “an honour to have you here.”

“Thank you, fair lady. You do not need to fear me. I won’t do anything scary.” I wink, and she titters, a nervous sound that confirms that I haven’t given her enough reassurances. She keeps glancing up. What’s so fascinating about my horns, I wonder?

Meanwhile, the redhead babbles something about being ready for that love and not that kind of love, stammers, and just when things are getting interesting, Cullen takes pity on her.

“We would like to have breakfast, Flissa. Whatever is ready, thank you kindly.” To me, he says, “Come, Herald, before Varric jumps out of his chair.”

The dwarf in question is waving at us from the farthest table, near a window with a lovely view on a merchants’ stalls.

“Hello, my vertically-challenged friend,” I _don’t_ say. The words stick in my throat and only air whooshes out of my lungs when someone hits me from the side, a full-on tackle that sends me flying into Cullen. We tumble to the floor, Commander, I, and the drunken man who didn’t notice a fucking giant chick in his way.

A lot of apologies to my right leg later — Willy, the baker’s son, can’t focus long enough on anything else — and I finally flop onto the chair next to Varric. If his grin tries to be any wider, Varric’s face would split in half and reveal all his white teeth, and tongue, and the ragged flesh of his torn cheeks—

“That was quite a spectacle. Poor lad seemed so sure Curly was going to execute him for assaulting Your Heraldness…” Varric shakes his head as Cullen sits opposite him. “You were quite a dashing hero, Commander, defending Shiny’s honour like that. The lad will be terrified into staying sober from now on, I bet.”

“Willy will be fine,” I say, watching Cullen shift in his seat.

Varric’s eyebrows shoot up. “And how do you know his name?”

I pause and look at him, my eyes half-closed. “I have been granted mystic powers of vast and unfathomable knowledge.” Like hell I’m admitting to hearing people gossip from across the whole tavern.

“That’s more like it!” Varric laughs while Cullen blinks, an uncertain expression on his face. “Keep it up, Herald, and we will make a proper hero out of you.”

“You are joking,” Cullen says. It sounds more like a question.

Before I can answer — not that I was going to, mind you — Flissa is here with our food. Breakfast consists of a bowl of oatmeal (a bland, grey, and chunky affair) and a pint of watered down ale, accompanied by a sweet bun. We aren’t a third into our meal when a soldier jogs to our table, interrupting Varric’s colourful story about his exploits in Kirkwall.

“Commander—” The soldier inhales, unable to continue. Sweat rolls down her forehead, and she swats at it more than wipes it with her gloved hand.

“At ease.” Cullen’s features sharpen into alertness.

Slumping forward and leaning on the table, the woman takes another couple of noisy breaths. “Report for you, ser. No delay, as you ordered.”

Cullen pulls the leather tube from her slackened grip and stands up. “Thank you, Ser Kathrine, return to your post —” he looks her up and down “— after you have caught your breath. I shall take my leave. If you will excuse me, Herald, Varric.” A slight bow, and he marches out of the tavern, his sword and armour clanking louder than before. No stealth whatsoever.

Ser Kathrine slinks to the next table and plasters herself across the wooden surface.

“Well,” Varric says, raising his eyebrows, “it must be some important report.”

Since there’s nothing I can do, short of interrogating Ser Kathrine, I just shrug. “Do you think he’d mind if I finish his ale?”

Varric gestures a ‘go ahead,’ and I help myself. As I drink, he regards me with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“I didn’t catch your name, Shiny.”

Finishing the ale, I set the mug down, ceramic hitting wood with a loud noise. “That’s because no one asked for it.” I don’t sound bitter. Nope.

“So?”

“Cher.”

“Just Cher? No last name? Well, that’s fine, too,” Varric adds seeing my shrug, and I return my attention to the food.

As pleasant as it is in the Singing Maiden, I need to familiarise myself with the terrain, and for that purpose, I recruit my new bestie as a guide.

“But I don’t want to go outside,” Varric says as I tow him away from the table. “It’s cold as the Seeker’s heart, and I’m not made for this weather. Give me a shitty lukewarm day in Kirkwall, and I’d be fine with it, but this—”

“Is the beginning of a fucking winter high in the mountains. What did you expect? Besides, you didn’t have a problem with the temperature when you were showing off your nipples to Cassandra.”

Varric snorts. “You are a cruel woman, Shiny.”

“Nah, just pragmatic. It won’t do for the Herald of Andraste to stumble around, poking into people’s homes in search of, say, a latrine.”

“Trust me, you won’t miss it. The smell alone will give it away.”

“No doubt, but with you, I get to hear all the juicy details about everyone of importance,” I say, and Varric grins.

“Oh, Shiny, it’s like you already know me too well.”

***

Even though countless tents and people somehow find the space to be inside the protection of the walled up part of Haven, the village is rather small. Varric starts his tour with the merchants’ stalls since they are practically on the tavern’s doorstep. Only two sellers are working at the moment. A middle-aged woman mans a large cart full of produce; the carrots and the pears look slightly withered, but the cabbages and lettuce are fine. Varric introduces her as Aine, and going by her warm greeting, I surmise that he has already had the chance to get into her good graces.

The second merchant’s table has significantly less merchandise on display. However, I’m certain that he’s a lot more popular around here. Any person selling hangover remedies just outside a tavern is bound to make a fortune.

Our next destination is an apothecary, who lives close to the Chantry. The entrance to his house frame two _metal geese_ with sconces affixed to their chests. I do a double take, shake my head, and open the door.

A mage in his late thirties with close-cropped hair, bushy moustaches and beard greets me with a chuckle. “Huh, look who’s back from the dead. Again.”

“I hear you’ve kept me alive. Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” I’ve found his notes on my condition scattered around my cabin. He was my primary physician, feeding me elfroot extract and such, while Solas studied the mark.

He shifts his weight and says, “Yeah, well, you can thank me by saving the world.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Don’t touch that!” he snaps, glaring over my shoulder.

“Easy. I’m not going to break anything,” Varric says, putting a delicate glass vial on the alchemy table.

“See that you don’t.”

Varric shakes his head but leaves the equipment alone, muttering, “Touchy.”

The mage huffs and crosses his arms, his gaze glued to Varric.

“So do you need my help?” I say.

As it turns out, the apothecary has a task for me. He introduces himself as Adan and asks me to look for the research papers his old — now dead — master worked on. Cranky and overworked, Adan nonetheless offers to make any potions I need, and his request goes on top of my priority list.

Outside, Solas is lounging next to a nearby cabin, barefoot and sans the coat. No idea how he can stand it — I’m feeling colder just by thinking about his lack of appropriate winter clothes.

“Hey, Chuckles,” Varric says.

“Varric.” Solas nods. “And, of course, the Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

“Yep, that’s me, in all my horned glory. Think I need something impressive to ride in battle. Unicorn, maybe?”

“I would suggest a griffon.” His smile is wide and open, but it doesn’t last long. “Joke as you will, but posturing is necessary.” To prove the point, Solas walks several steps away and stops with his back turned to us. Without the protection of the hut, the wind picks up the tails of his tunic.

“I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilisation,” Solas says looking at the horizon. His voice gains a hypnotic cadence. “I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.” He lowers his head, turns to us, and loses the storytelling tone. “Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.” His gaze is intense and expectant.

“Aren’t we all?” Varric says, and Solas stops scanning my insides.

“The tragic stories sell better, I would imagine.”

I take a moment to think about it. “The kind of hero who stumbles through adventures, fucking up shit left, right, and centre, and doesn’t die at the end.”

“As long as you manage to keep us all alive, I can live with that,” Solas says.

We chat about the Fade and his experience there. Varric has _lots_ of questions. Dwarves don’t dream, and Solas is the kind of expert who likes to talk about his field of study, at length. We stand around, listening about great event of the past, until I can’t feel my legs anymore.

“How are you not an icicle?” I ask Solas when he finishes describing the elvhen festival held in celebration of Mythal, their patron of love, motherhood, justice, and vengeance.

“I am relying on my magic to keep me warm, of course. You didn’t think that elves are impervious to the cold, did you?” Solas raises his eyebrows. “If so, you are mistaking us with dwarves.”

“Not to disappoint, but that’s not true,” Varric tells us. His exposed chest says otherwise.

“Nifty spell. How?” The chattering of my teeth makes long sentences hard to accomplish.

“It is quite simple and very similar to creating barriers. Imagine yourself wrapped in a blanket, add a little mana to the thought, and wish it into being.”

Somehow, I get the impression that he’s just glossed over a mile long explanation of magical theory and dumbed it down to a baseboard level. I resolve not to feel offended. And fail. Still, it’s worth a shot. At first, nothing happens. I try again and end up feeling like a mummy, wrapped from horns to toes into an invisible, heavy comforter.

“You all right, Shiny?” Concern is waging a war with mirth on Varric’s face. “You look like you are about to suffocate.”

I cancel the spell and gulp lungfuls of air. “More practise. Indoors. Thanks! ’S been a real treat.”

“Not at all, Herald.” Solas smirks.

Before we depart, Solas benevolently sends a wave of heat our way. It lasts long enough for me to jog back to the tavern without losing any extremities to frostbite, Varric not far behind.

“How about we take a break for a couple of hours? I can’t feel my ass, and I’m sitting on it,” I say, flagging Flissa down.

Being a gentledwarf, Varric agrees.

* * *

After thawing — inside _and_ outside — with the help of strong liquor, we continue the exploration of Haven. The sun is well past its zenith, and the temperature has dropped even lower. After the warmth of the Singing Maiden, it is unpleasantly bracing. I set a brisk pace, intent on finishing as quickly as possible and returning to my cabin to learn that blanket spell even if it kills me.

“Where’s the fire?” Varric asks as we stop near another merchant, close to the village’s outer gate. A handsome blond mans the table with weapons laid on display.

“Ten feet to the left.” I point with a thumb over my shoulder in the general direction of the nearest campfire. A group of soldiers sit around it on stone benches, and soup is bubbling in the pot. They are off-duty, and one of them is asking another when the food will be ready. My nose rejoices at the smell of burning wood mixed with the aroma of chicken bouillon overshadowing the stench of unwashed bodies and latrine pits.

“I didn’t mean it literally,” Varric grumbles.

“Ah, you’re awake and out of Lady Cassandra clutches,” the merchant says in a deep voice that sends shivers over my skin. Sadly, they run away in the next second because some people shouldn’t open their yaps too often. This man is one of them.

“And here I paid that little knife-ear to inform me the moment you were free,” he continues. “No matter, no matter. Seggrit, honoured to meet you. Thank you for all you’ve done, and hopefully, will still do.”

“Tell me, Seggrit, do you believe in the Maker?”

“Of course,” he says, taken aback.

“Then why do you insult him so?” My fists wouldn’t mind becoming acquainted with his jaw.

“I—”

“It is not mages that made him turn on us, for he is the one who created and gifted them with magic. It is the bigots who spit in his eye” — assholes like you, I mean — “with every hurtful word they utter.” I hope the look I give him conveys the magnitude of disappointment in humanity their imaginary friend in the Fade would feel if, you know, he was real and cared.

“Come on, Varric. I can’t _wait_ to see the trebuchets.” Turning on my heels, I march down the road that goes along the village’s outer wall.

“So you don’t like when people insult elves,” Varric says when we put some distance between us and that asshole. “The news will spread around pretty quickly.”

I round my eyes and gasp, one hand flying to cover my cheek. “Goodness, Varric, you make it sound like a _bad thing._ ”

Varric laughs. “Your story certainly won’t be boring.”

* * *

The trebuchets are at the farthest eastern point of the village, in the rounded space where the outer wall meets the mountain. I count three big, made of wood and metal things that aren’t trebuchets at all. The central one has only a platform with two vertical beams rising out of it. Wheels lying here and there, not connected to anything. The other two look like enormous battering rams. I have a very vague idea of how it will turn out when finished. Siege equipment isn’t something I’m familiar with, then.

“Well. It’s an impressive pile of parts, I guess?” That’s about all I have to say on the subject.

People mill around, climb up and down the scaffoldings, do some kind of construction work, and generally look busy. A couple over the table discusses the need to order iron brackets and more bolts. Something falls near the right trebuchet with a thud, and a man curses. The general clamour of the area quickly swallows his breathless with pain voice.

We don’t linger. Backtracking, we leave the village, and Varric stops just outside the gate.

“Here’s the stable.” He points at a barn on the left though the smell of manure and the nickering have already given it away. “There are not many horses yet, but don’t worry, they will find something capable of carrying your weight, I’m sure.” Wisely, Varric doesn’t wait for me to reply. “And in the next building is the forge.”

I can’t see it from where we stand but have no reason to doubt his words. A frozen lake lies straight ahead. It might be a suitable place for ice skating. A thought for later consideration.

As many tents as I saw in Haven, yet more occupy the field in front of the lake. Soldiers fight in the clearings left between them, doing several stances over and over again, steel clashing and clanging.

“Curly is over there somewhere,” Varric says, following my line of sight. “He usually oversees training while the Seeker pours her aggression into chopping up dummies instead of real people.”

The sun is close to the mountain peaks. Once it hides behind them, the evening will fall quickly, and _the weather will be even colder_. So I ask Varric to help me find the papers for Adan. We skirt around the soldiers’ encampment and walk along the trail leading into the sparse growth of evergreen trees that I hesitate to call a forest.

Master Taigen must have valued privacy because his hut is pretty isolated. The porch is snowed in, but as soon as Varric finishes picking the lock, I pull the door open with little effort. Inside, the air is stale and smells very similarly to Adan’s place — herbs and chemical reagents.

Using Fade energy — _It’s a kind of magic._ No, really. It’s magic _—_ I light a flame. It rests on my palm, hot and bright. Curious how it doesn’t burn me. I’ll need to ask Solas about proper magical lights later.

The hut has two large room. “I wonder why no one has moved in yet.”

Varric shrugs and picks up a candle. With two points of light, darkness recedes closer to the corners. “People are afraid, and here nobody will hear them if demons attack.”

“There’s enough room for a squad or two if they are willing to sleep in _really_ _close_ quarters.” Vague pictures of an endless night sky and desert bluffs, and a sensation of lying back to back on a cold, hard ground emerge from the fog, but when I try to grasp them, they slip away.

Varric goes to a table littered with parchments. Beside it is a bookcase filled to capacity. “You should probably take it up to Ruffles.”

I can think of only one person who deserves such a nickname. “You mean Josie?” I wander after Varric and lean down to have a look at the lowest shelf, careful not to set the whole bookcase on fire. _The Arts Most Arcane_ looks promising.

Varric hums in agreement and mutters, “This is the most atrocious handwriting I’ve seen.”

Listening to the rustling of parchment, I choose several other titles, but without a sack, I won’t be able to carry all I want to read back to my cabin in one go.

“There’s no way I can tell which of these are the research papers Adan needs,” Varric says, at last.

“Just grab all of them.”

“Hey, look, this is interesting,” he says.

I half turn, clutching books to my chest with one hand and holding the flame on the other, and start to get up from my squat when something solid gets in the way. Of course, I drive my elbow right into the edge of the tabletop. Howling like a deranged wolf on the moon and biting my lip, I jump, ram my forehead into the bookcase, and drop the books. My hand — the one with the flame — goes to the forming bruise. And — _Holy shit! There’s fire near my face!_ Heat licks my skin. As soon as I realise it, the flame snuffs out.

Varric, the bastard, has the gall to laugh. “You all right, Shiny?”

I glare at his grin, which only widens. Illuminated by a single candle, the sharp angles that shadows paint on his face make him look sinister, like a cruel god of mischief.

“Yeah. As long as you skip the part where the hero is a klutz in your story, I’ll be fine.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises, Your Heraldness.”

Sighing, I summon the flame back and scout the hut for valuables. Master Taigen won’t need them, and I’m definitely not above looting. Besides, it’s for the Inquisition and, thus, for a good cause. From the shelves, I grab knick-knacks that might fetch a fair price — small figurines, pendants and the like. Varric picks the locks on some of the chests, and we split the catch. I find a coin purse but no bags. Eventually, I pile all accumulated stuff on a blanket and tie the edges together. The result isn’t too bad. However, when books poke me in the back with metal corners, I have to repack them in a more organised manner.

When we step outside, the sun has already rolled behind the mountains. The first bright stars form half-familiar, half-unknown constellations. And overshadowing them, the ever-present green vortex stands out against the backdrop of the rapidly darkening sky.

“Do you think it will scar?”

Varric closes the door. All of his visible pockets bulge out. “Which _it_?”

“The sky.”

The corners of his mouth quirk down. “I don’t know, Shiny. You are better off asking Chuckles.” Varric glances at the Breach, and his expression becomes decidedly unhappy. “But if I have to guess? This shit won’t disappear without a trace.” He snorts without humour. “Well, isn’t it depressing?”

Although now they do it in the light of campfires, the soldiers on the field are still training. The wind throws fluffy snowflakes in my face and carries Cullen’s voice barking instructions.

We come through the gate, and Varric points in the direction of the village square.

“That’s where you will find Nightingale and the quartermaster. Right in the middle. You won’t miss them, but if you do, ask anyone around, they will know.” He pauses for a moment and adds, “Or don’t. It’s likely, Leliana will know of your arrival before the thought to visit even crosses your mind.”

My eyebrows climb up, but Varric just grins, a wry twist of lips that makes his laugh lines more prominent, and I thank him for help and promise to find him later.

The cabin, when I get there, is warm and inviting. Someone added new logs to the fire and made my bed. A covered plate and a mug wait on the table, and suddenly, I don’t want to go out. Leaving my coat on a hook, I dump the makeshift sack near the bed, choose a book at random, and sit down to eat.

* * *

I wake up with the sunrise. All through the night, I’ve been seeing a _really_ weird shit that left me disconcerted, and, needing to clear my head, I gather the papers for Adan and go for a walk.

Though the hour is early, the villagers are up and at it, soldiers, scouts, and servants running to and fro. Bright-eyed Aine wishes me a good morning. I reply in kind and stop to buy fruits. Half-frozen pears taste not as bad as I imagined.

Adan is a lot less awake or cheerful.

“What now,” he shouts when I knock on his door.

“Delivery for you, ser. A bunch of parchments with illegible scrawls, as requested.”

The door opens a crack, and a rumpled apothecary squints against the bright morning light.

“Have you slept at all?”

Adan’s tired face scrunches in annoyance. “I was going to before _someone_ decided to pay me a visit.”

My timing could have been better, I agree. “Sorry.” I thrust the papers into his hands and back away, saying, “Hope it will help!”

Adan blinks and shuffles inside, shutting the door with enough force to rattle glassware left on a barrel standing next to the left goose statue. He mutters something rather uncomplimentary, featuring Andraste’s garments, animals, and the Maker’s body parts, but the door is too thick and his voice is too quiet to make out the precise details.

The weather is calm, with no wind or snowfall, so I wander around without a purpose until it occurs to me that I haven’t been to the forge. As I step under the roof of an open terrace, a bald man with a bushy, carrot orange moustaches notices my approach.

“Expected you’d be by. I’m Harritt… and everyone knows who you are.”

“Hm. Popularity. Not sure I like it.”

“Yes, well. How’s your new gear fit?”

My eyebrows climb up. “New gear?”

“The staff and coat I made for you at Lady Cassandra’s request.”

I shrug with one shoulder. “Haven’t seen it yet.”

“You haven’t?” Harritt’s tone carries a plaintive note, his shoulders drop, and even his moustaches droop.

Oh, damn it all to hell! It’s like I have decapitated a plush toy in front of a toddler. “Thank you kindly. I’m sure everything will fit just right.” Assuming he had my measurements. Did Cas take them herself while I was out cold, I wonder, or was it someone else?

Harritt doesn’t look reassured, so I try my most charming smile. The one that says, ‘I’m the cutest thing in the world, love and adore me,’ not to be mistaken with the ‘bow to me, I’m your evil overlord’ smile. They are _different_. It may be a subtle difference, but it’s there.

My smile is working: it’s Harritt’s turn to shrug, but his moustaches twitch up. “If it doesn’t, come here, and I will make necessary adjustments.”

Then he offers to create any customised staff, using the schematics and materials I find. The rarer and more complicated, the better.

A woman dressed in a mage robe comes in and stops nearby, far enough for it to be polite but still indicate her intention to speak with one of us. She is looking at the smith with an absence of expression, her face still water calm. _Tranquil_ , my mind supplies. I wish Harritt a pleasant day and leave him be.

“Researcher Minaeve has alloys that may prove more effective against demons.” The woman’s voice is even and void of inflexions, and a stab of pity pierces my heart.

I know that being stripped of all emotions doesn’t make her less of a person, but I would wish her fate only on my enemies. On the other hand, then they would be all logical and more efficient, so maybe not.

“Herald!” Cas’ shout stops me in my tracks. Turning, I watch her jog from the field. I appreciate the sight, for she has an admirable form. Her cheeks are red, and her hair is wet close to the roots.

“I have meant to send for you later, but since you are here, let us proceed to the Chantry now,” Cas says when she’s level with me and, indeed, proceeds to the Chantry, or at least through the gate, without delay, her strides purposeful and sure. I trail after her.

“Good morning to you, too, Cas.”

She glances at me, but a moment later, her eyes are resolutely trained on the road. “Yes, that.”

“Slept well?”

“I did. Thank you, Herald.” Ten paces later she clears her throat. “Does the mark trouble you?”

As if it has a mind of its own, my damnable flashlight winks at her from my hand. The honest answer is ‘yes, it troubles the everloving fuck outta me.’ Even if it doesn’t hurt anymore — and thank whoever cares for that — it is a foreign object, which I’d like to remove, but Cas can’t do that. I put on a brave face. “Not particularly. Reading at night is mighty comfortable now.”

Can snorts. “There are easier ways to find a light.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are, but mine is unique. If the whole Inquisition thing doesn’t pan out, I’ll make it a fashion statement.”

The Chantry is full of people. All those clerics and sisters who yesterday stood outside now do their duties, whatever those may be. From what I can see, their primary job is to pray. A woman is tending to the candles, and another is sweeping the floor. Cas marches past them without a second glance, aiming straight for the conference room, or War Room, as I overheard it being called.

Josie, Leliana, and Cullen are already there, talking. A yellowed and faded with time map, its edges curling inwards, spans the whole tabletop. We all exchange greetings, and Cas jumps into the discussion with both feet.

“As I mentioned before, your mark needs more power to close the Breach, and for that, I propose to approach the rebel mages—”

“And I still disagree. The templars can help just as well.” Cullen interrupts her, taking a step forward. We all are kind of awkwardly loitering around the miles-long table, so the Commander doesn’t have much room for promenades.

They start to quibble over adding power to my flashlight vs. suppressing the hole in the sky, with Leliana throwing her fiver every now and then, and that leaves me with an opportunity to chat with Josie. Inching away from Cas, I sidle up to her just as Cullen says that he was a templar. Ah. It explains him checking up on me yesterday — he must have been worried about their freshly minted Herald waking up as an abomination. Disappointing, but not crushingly so.

“Are they always like this?”

Josephine glances at me out of the corner of her eye, tilts her head to the side. “I’d say no, but… Only when it concerns major decisions, and we are yet to make many of them.”

We wait some more, but neither of them shows any sign of winding down, and finally, Josie cuts them off. “This is pointless at the moment, for neither group will even speak with us.” They fall silent, and she continues. “The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition —” Josie turns to face me “— and you specifically. The remaining Clerics have declared it blasphemy. They are frightened by the implications of people calling you, a Qunari, the Herald of Andraste.”

“Chancellor Roderick’s _sticky little paws are all over that, no doubt,_ ” Cas would say if she was less uptight. Instead, she uses the word ‘doing.’ Not a bad choice in the right context, of course.

“Oh, joy. Will an angry mob with pitchforks make an appearance anytime soon? Should I expect to be burned at a stake?”

Cullen snorts. “The Chantry did declare us heretics for harbouring you, but they have only words at their disposal.”

“People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign,” Leliana says.

And Josephine adds, “And to others, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong.”

“No pitchforks then. Good to know.” I sigh. More for effect than anything else. “That’s the problem with orthodox religion that requires celibacy. I bet if Roderick got laid, he wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass. Maybe we can arrange him a trip to a brothel?”

“Herald,” Josie says, her eyes wide and disbelieving, while Cullen struggles to get his sudden coughing fit under control.

I shrug. “Just a suggestion.” A good one, at that. “A decent brothel can solve half of our problems. Boost morale, at the very least. Soldiers need to relax, right?”

Cullen, who has only just stopped coughing, chokes on whatever he was about to say. His face is turning an alarming shade of red.

“You all right, Commander?” I didn’t break him, did I?

He raises a hand and nods, still coughing. _Such sensibility, poor sod._

Leliana clears her throat. “There is something you can do. I have received word from Revered Mother Giselle. She has asked to speak to you. She is not far and knows those involved far better than I.” Leliana gives me a weighted look. “Her assistance could be invaluable.”

I mutter, “Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more, say no more,” and gather a collection of blank stares. “All right. Where do I find her?”

Moving closer to the map, Leliana points to its right side and moves a pebble across Fereldan territory, into the lower middle of the country. “You’ll find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe.”

“Do you have a compass and a dozen well-detailed maps?” I have no idea if I can navigate them with any skill.

Nightingale’s delicate eyebrows arch up. “You won’t need them. Cassandra is coming with you.”

Yay!

“Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence while you’re there,” Cullen says, both hands resting on the hilt of his sword and tone businesslike.

“How? Bring ten giant spiders’ glands to a person here, kill twenty-five rabid wolves to collect a reward there?”

“Something like that, yes,” Cullen says, a peculiar look on his face.

“We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley, and you’re better suited than anyone to recruit them,” Josie says.

“In the meantime, let’s think of other options. I won’t leave this all to the Herald.”

“Aw, thanks, Cas. You are a peach, all fuzzy and sweet.”

Her mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Finally —

“I am no such thing!” Cas says, and Josie giggles at her righteous indignation.

“I am not!”

“Mm, if you say so.” I pat Cas on the shoulder, and she _growls_ and stalks out. _A dangerous woman equals hot like burning._

Cullen and Leliana crack up, and the sound of their laughter follows me out.

Figuring I have some preparations to do, I decide to seek out the quartermaster. Introduce myself, maybe ask for supplies, that sort of thing. As per Varric’s directions, I waddle to the middle of the town square, manoeuvring between people who have more precise destinations in mind. First, I find the largest tent. It’s a simple matter of following the caws of birds and rustling of wings to the source. Looking around, I spot a large table, overflowing with books, scrolls, maps, and all kind of bits and bobs; crates and basket are everywhere around it. A woman walks out of the tent behind it just as I approach.

She cranes her neck, turning her freckled face up, and the feathers of her funny, orange hat swing to the side. “Can I help you?”

“That depends on who you are.”

Crossing her arms, she frowns, and recognition hits me like a chug of dwarven ale, swift going down and punching. She was in the crowd that wanted to lynch me, wearing the most disgusted expression of them all. Evidently, I’m not the only one having a moment.

“Oh, you are her!” she says, becoming less frowny by the moment. “Threnn, the Inquisition’s quartermaster. I’m doing what I can to supply this mess. If you find what I need to fill one of my requisitions, I’d appreciate you bringing it in.”

“All right.” I figure it can’t hurt. “What do you need?”

“We are thin on materials, so I’ve put a list with anything that could help our people.” Threnn searches through the closest pile of parchment. “Here, take a look.”

Unfurling the scroll, I feel my eyebrows climb up without any input from my brain. It is a damn long list written with a tiny script, the letters blocky and slanted to the left. _Obsidian, blah-blah-blah, elfroot, spider legs, spider ichor—_ “Huh. He knew!”

“Pardon?”

I shake my head, not in the mood to explain. “Never mind that.”

Threnn nods. “All right. You find some iron and a good logging site, maybe Harritt can get out troops better weapons.”

“Um-hm.” I look up from the scroll. “Do I get a pickaxe?”

She stares at me. “Whatever for?”

“How else would I get ore out of the mountain? Or wherever the hell it’s found.” I need to find a sturdy bag, with enchantments. As strong as I am, the weight of mining equipment plus however many lumps of metal I can lift will undoubtedly break my back. _Where to look for ore in the first place? Hm. Varric should know more about it. After all, he is a dwarf._

“Herald,” Threnn says slowly, “you only need to mark the locations on the map. Our workers will take care of the rest.”

 _Oh._ “Well, that’s a relief.”

Pocketing the list, I bid her goodbye and hurry back to my cabin. Master Taigen’s books showed me how utterly lacking my knowledge of the arcane is, and I need to swiftly rectify it to be ready to face the world at large again. Shivering, I walk faster.

_I’ll start with the bloody warmth spell._


	3. On the Road + Hinterlands

We depart for the Hinterlands too damn early in the morning.

I packed most of my things the night before, after returning from the Chantry and finding a new staff and a large backpack lying on my bed. The backpack already had several new outfits, including underwear that fit astonishingly well. Someone had fun with my body while I was out and didn't tell me about it. _Note to self: pout at Cas._ So after getting ready, I stuff the essentials and as of yet unread books inside the bag and go to find my companions.

Yawning so wide my jaw is cracking and threatening to stick open, I trudge through the village. The sun isn't even fully up yet. It’s hiding behind the mountains like I would behind a pillow if Cas didn't bang on my door so fucking hard. I swear she can wake the dead, no magic needed. Speaking of the devil—

“Herald, I took care of provisions and camping gear,” Cas says, falling into step with me just outside the gate. “I hope you do not mind.”

“Not at all.” Contrary to her opinion, I do have a good idea of what that gear consists of. Still, it’s a nice gesture. “Thanks. I don't think Threnn likes me all that much.” I must have nailed it because Cas doesn't reply.

Another jaw-cracking yawn; my eyelids close for a brief moment — just resting my eyes.

“Herald,” Cas says.

“Mm?” While I blink, coming back online, my nose is quicker to catch up. “Ugh. Horse manure. Yummy.”

Three sturdy horses and a pony stand outside the stable, and looking at them, I come to a startling realisation: I have no idea how to ride. The journey hasn't even begun, and already I've encountered the first hurdle.

Casting me a sidelong glance, Cas goes to a black mare while Solas — and where the hell did he come from? I haven’t heard his footsteps — breezes past me to one of the two remaining brown geldings.

Seeing that I make no move to come closer, a perky-looking groom whom I’ve definitely seen in the tavern — _Davert? Dan?_ — brings to me the last horse and waits, holding the bridle. I stuff my backpack into one of the saddlebags, watching with half an eye as Cas and Solas hop onto their mounts, doing it with such grace that the process seems effortless.

_It can't be too hard._ But even as I think it, doubt creeps in.

With a cheerful, “Good morning,” Varric joins us next and climbs on his pony with a minimal amount of grumbling. I rub my eyes, but no, they do not deceive me: Varric perches on the hoofed beast like he was born to do it. _All right, then._

Telling the part of myself that screams about dwarves not being meant to mix with water or horses — _it’s unnatural, I tell ya!_ — to kindly shut the fuck up, I lay my shiny new staff on the ground, grab the saddle the way Cas did, wedge a foot into a stirrup, push up, overbalance as hell, and fly horns first over the horse. The coattails hit my back as I break the fall with a clumsy handstand, and then, of course, the saddle moves to accommodate the pull of my weight.

“That looked painful,” Varric says while Cas rushes to help. I imagine, she gives him her signature disapproving glare.

“This isn't going into the book, either,” I grunt, freezing my ass off on the packed snow while Cas and Denis untangle my foot from the stirrup.

“Whatever you say, Shiny.”

The second attempt is a success, and I'm in the saddle. I sit on the hard leather, enjoying the new vantage point with little to no idea of what to do next. It's kinda nice up here.

“Herald?” David says.

“Mm? Oh! Thanks!” I take my staff from him and strap it in the harness on my back, hitting the horse's side in the process. That earns me an ear twitch and a snort from the horse and a reproachful glance from Dylan. _Eh._ “Sorry?”

Sighing, the groom pats the gelding's nose. “Jack has the sweetest temper. He won't cause you any trouble if you treat him with care.” He gives me the reins and with one last reproachful look goes to the stable.

“Thanks very much, Daren,” I call after him.

His steps falter, and just as Cas starts giving me the instructions, I hear him whisper an awed, “Blessed Andraste! The Herald knows my name!” and smile. _Got it!_ No two guesses who’s going to be a popular lad in the tavern tonight.

Some minutes later, armed with the knowledge of how to operate a horse, I feel ready to get on with the trip. We pair up. Cas and Solas take the lead.

“It would be infinitely simpler with pedals,” I say to no one in particular, looking at the rear ends of their mounts. The horses’ tails sway from left to right and back in unison. It’s uncanny.

“Pedals?” Varric asks.

“Yeah, like, one for go and another to stop.”

He pauses, considering it, and shakes his head. “I don't see a way to make it work.”

The wind picks up and, of course, throws a handful of snowflakes at my face, leaving me spluttering and feeling ever so much colder. Despite my continuous efforts to get that fucking spell down, gentle warmth isn't something that wants to cooperate. On the brighter side, I can mind blast and crush enemies in a cage of kinetic force like nobody's business. Maybe finesse just isn't for me, but damned if I stop trying. And anyway, my new coat is longer and heavier, so I should be fine for a while.

We pass the gate, our mounts slowly trotting down the road. Even at this ridiculous hour, the field is crowded. The sounds of steel clanging, snapping of released bowstrings, and arrows hitting targets that have been on the periphery of my attention become louder. Do the soldiers here really never stop training?

I catch myself on listening for a familiar voice and feel disappointment every time it fails to appear.

Varric must have picked on it, for he says, “Lost someone?”

I turn to him, and he nods in the direction of the lake where Cullen stands at the edge of the tent camp, watching us with his arms crossed. Catching my gaze, he nods.

“He was there the whole time, wasn’t he?”

“Yep.”

So the blond muffin in shining armour saw my ass over tea kettle manoeuvre. A stellar beginning. My shoulders slump. “Great. Just great.”

Leaving the narrow paths leading out of Haven behind, we get to the Imperial Highway, a wide, cobbled road framed by pillars, and ride at a steady pace. It's both soothing and boring. Every so often, I yawn, wishing for the comfort of my bed.

Eventually, Varric asks, “Didn't get enough sleep, Shiny?”

I stare at him flatly. “I’ve spent half the night catching up on topics of arcane persuasion and woke up at the asscrack of dawn. What do you think?”

“That you are not a morning person.”

I snort. “Definitely not.”

Varric nods, and the silence prevails.

Some time later, I shift in the saddle. It’s deeply uncomfortable, and I can't find a better position. The sun is high up, so it's been at least a few hours of nonstop riding. Pain stabs my thighs and ass at every jump.

Hearing my sigh, Cas glances over her shoulder and does a double take. “Your posture is atrocious.”

“Thanks, darling. Tell me something I _don't_ know.”

Cas huffs. “You need to relax.” She slows down her horse so we can ride abreast and observes me some more while Varric speeds up to take her place. “No, don't slouch, keep your back straight.”

I follow her advice, trying this, that, and whatnot, until she is satisfied with the result, but I’m still awkward and stiff. Cas’ patient yet resigned tone evokes a different voice from my memory.

“I am sworn to carry your burdens,” I mutter, unsure of whom the phrase belongs to; it feels appropriate.

Cas gives me a funny look but says only, “Don't pull the reins so much.”

Solas twists in the saddle to offers his opinion. “Allow your horse to choose the way, Herald. It knows better where to go.”

“This isn't a halla, Chuckles. If Shiny does that, she’ll end up near a haystack.”

Eyeing Jack with suspicion, I, nevertheless, relax the reins. “I’m unfit to drive.”

“Nonsense. You just need practise and confidence.” Cas tilts her head to the side and frowns. “What is it really you are worried about?”

Sighing, I confess, “I’m afraid of crushing Jack.”

At the mention of his name, the gelding's right ear twitches, and I hold my breath. What if he finally falls down under me right here and now? That would be uber awkward.

Cas blinks, but my expression remains serious. “Don't be ridiculous. Nothing will happen to your horse.”

“You aren't that big,” Varric says, slowing his pony and leaving Solas all alone on the wide road that becomes really narrow with three mounts going head to head. My leg brushes against Cas’, and she speeds up, retaking her place in the lead.

“I’ve seen Qunari twice your size,” Varric continues, impervious to the dirty looks Cas sends him. “Granted, they were male and didn't ride horses…” He trails off into a thoughtful silence. “Come to think of it, you are the first female of your kind that I've ever met. I wonder why is that.”

I shrug, having no good answer. We ride some more, Varric lost in thought and me on the verge of falling asleep. The monotony of the scenery is getting to me. It's all white banks and snow-covered shrubs and pines for miles in either direction. Soothing, one might say. _Intensely_ _boring_ is what I call it. Soon I would fall asleep for real, but Cas calls for a stop.

“What is it, Seeker?” Varric asks, looking around.

“It is too quiet.”

Varric nods. “I see what you mean.”

I do, too. Even straining my ears, I catch no sound of birds or any other wildlife. It _is_ unnaturally quiet. The air itself is wrong, heavy and thin and oddly charged.

“The Veil is thin here,” Solas says.

And that means… “A rift? Splendid.” I keep my voice light and cheerful in counterpoint to my mood. “And the day was so nice.”

We dismount and tie our horses to a convenient pine tree fifteen feet away from the road. It’s too close to the Highway, but being robbed while saving the world, or at least this small part of it, while hilariously unfair is still better than feeding our mounts to demons.

Cas unsheathes her sword. “Be on your guard.”

_Thanks, Captain Obvious._

“As if I was going to lie down and take a nap.” My legs have turned into carved in a semicircle logs. Perhaps, I do need a break. “On second thought, I may do just that. Lying down sounds like a decent idea.”

The snow crunches underneath our boots as we trudge through the underbrush and into the open field, and in the quiet stillness, the sound carries for miles. If a monster is lying in wait, it sure hears our approach. Lucky for us, rifts don’t have ears.

A crystal gleams in mid-air — a small tear of green, dormant for now. It doesn’t remain so for long. As soon as I get near, the rift bristles with spikes like a vicious porcupine and spits out a handful of demons. Two of them grow out of the ground right before my feet.

Cas lets loose a battle cry that would curdle my blood were she an enemy and charges the closest shade, and I step aside, allowing her to shield me while I cast. I’m a long-range fighter, all right? I might not need it, but I appreciate protection.

Freezing a shade, I follow up with a stone fist that shatters it into small chunks of ice. Spells come easy like my body knows how to channel magic and all I need is let it do its job, and after a refreshing crash course, it’s a breeze.

The first bunch of demons is dwindling, and I inch toward the rift to get in range of connection. Stumbling over something stiff and unyielding, I glance down, expecting a fallen branch or a small log, and see a human hand. Its skin is blue, and where the elbow joint should be is a mess of torn muscles and protruding bone shards. The fingers, absurdly clean and intact, hold a broken off business end of a pitchfork. Jumping backwards, I scream like a fucking banshee.

Everyone pauses, including the remaining demons.

My heart is lodged right under my tonsils, so I swallow it back and electrocute the last shade, leaving only two wraiths and a raging demon-shaped heap of lava for Cas, Varric, and Solas to pick off.

Shuddering, I step over the hand and make a shooing gesture. “Moving on with the mowing.”

I don’t get very far — or close, as the case may be. In the last-ditch effort to cut us down, the rift spits a new bunch of residents of the Fade.

“Late to the party?” I say, eyeing the glowing green spot from where a demon will emerge in a second, and wave my flashlight until it connects with the rift.

A wave of despair hits me like a truck. My shoulders sag under its insurmountable weight. My concentration breaks. _Thanks for having my six, people._ A figure in a tattered cloak floats toward me, outstretching long, twisted arms with ropes of sagging, grey flesh covering deformed bones. Instead of a face, a maw full of teeth gapes from the folds of jagged skin visible underneath the figure’s hood.

I point my staff at it. _“Expecto Patronum!”_ Nothing happens. “Figures.” Battling with a sudden onset of depression, I summon enough willpower to blast it with ice. _Nothing happens._ The demon continues on its way like I’ve just blown it a kiss.

“What the fuck!”

The demon stops, a spike of ice forming on its disfigured hands, and—

“Oh, shit!” I dodge to the right, but not fast enough. My already depleted barrier pops like a soap bubble, and a glittering shard embeds in my thigh, bypassing my coat through a side slit. I yelp, obviously.

The demon sways in place, readying another spell, no doubt.

A strangled moan makes it past my gritted teeth as I clutch my leg with one hand, leaning on the staff. Pain clears my head, though. If it has an affinity for cold, then burn it to cinders I will. Calling on the Fade energy, I let loose a fireball, aiming it at the demon’s rodent-like teeth. It hurls through the air with a satisfying _whoosh_ , sounding kind of like a lightsaber. The materials of my new staff giving it an extra oomph, the fireball impacts the demon with a fiery burst. _Chew this, fucker._

The demon’s cloak ignites like kindling, and the creature howls in a high-pitched voice.

I follow up with a bolt of lightning, but it doesn’t do much. The flames are dying down. _Fine._ It hurts to stand as putting weight on my injured leg is a fucking torture, but I need both hands for a fancy move. Gripping the shaft, I place the top well over my shoulder, then move it in a sharp arch to point at the demon, and end up with my staff a couple of degrees short of being parallel to the ground.

A violent explosion arising from under the demon incinerates it on the spot; pieces of the burning rags flutter down onto a patch of melting snow. My leg gives up on supporting me. I sink to the ground. The adrenalin and shock are fading, and the pain is getting worse. My companions are engaged with the rest of the demonic bunch so I can take a breather. A new barrier sets over me — just in time to be useless.

“Your timing is impeccable, Solas,” I mutter, trying to staunch the bleeding with my scarf. _Where the fuck did I put the healing potions?_ Into the inner pocket of my coat, as it turns out. Clamping the cork with my teeth, I pull it out and halve the medicine between the wound and my stomach. A pleasant heat rolls through me, warming my limbs, and an itching sensation sets in my thigh. I’ll take it over the pain any day, but couldn’t healing be less irritating?

Under my ruined scarf, torn muscles knit back together. A layer of new skin covers them shortly after. I imagine it all too vividly. The desire to scratch it raw is overpowering, so I pick up my staff and get up. Time to do my job: left hand up, connection established.

On the other side of the rift, Cas shoves her sword through a shade. It disintegrates into ectoplasm, which disappears seeping through the ground.

The rift closes without fanfare.

“Everything all right, Shiny?” Varric asks. Bianca is pointing down, but he doesn’t put her away just yet.

“Peachy.” With a glance, I confirm that nobody is badly hurt and start scanning the ground, looking for irregularities. “What’s a bloody dementor doing here?”

“That was a despair demon, Herald,” Solas says. Sun rays glint off his head as he crouches down next to the place where I stumbled, and an understanding lights his face. “Ah.”

A dozen feet away from the severed hand is a slight bump — a human head, covered with a thin dusting of snow. Two more feet away lies a foot. I follow the gruesome trail. Cas joins me, and together, we gather the bodies.

Varric puts the last found part of a person onto the pile of fallen branches we managed to scrape from the sparse foliage. His forehead creases in a frown, and worry lines his face with an unfamiliar pattern.

As rifts are open all over Ferelden, I fear we are about to get intimately acquainted with reading the last rites.

“These are the lost villagers,” Cas says, breaking the silence. “Commander Cullen sent troops to search for them, but the soldiers didn’t find anybody.”

I counted enough body part to construct ten people, but there are only eight heads. Tokens for the relatives — anything that could hint on identity: a ring, an ear loop, a locket, or even a carved button — weight my backpack down as if I’ve loaded it with stones.

“No wonder. They were already dead,” Varric says. “I heard the talk around the tavern that some hotheads went looking for demons, claiming that, with Andraste’s blessing, they would conquer the evil.” He snorts, his lips tighten. “Guess we are looking at the result.”

“They were brave if misguided souls,” Solas says.

“Stupid.” The word jumps out without my consent, but I don’t regret it. I clench my fists, wishing for something to hit. Hot coals burn in my gut. I have half a mind to let my anger run free and summon a couple of rage demons so I can murder them. “Stupid idiots.” They found trouble, tried to run away, couldn’t. Lives lost for no reason. End of story. And absurdly, I feel responsible for their deaths.

“Bravery is the other side of stupidity, some people say.” Solas’ voice is mild and contemplative, his expression — unreadable. I can’t decide if he is upset and hiding it well or simply bored. “This is —” a slight frown creases his forehead as he searches for the right word “— regrettable.”

 _Regrettable,_ I mouth after him. Spilt milk is regrettable, a loss of a trinket, maybe. This—

Cas clears her throat. “I will say the words.” She shifts her weight, puts her hands on the hilt of her sword. “The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next…”

Varric closes his eyes. Solas lights up the pile — it doesn’t have enough wood to be a pyre — and glances away. I stare at the burning bodies, an impotent rage boiling my blood, and listen to Cas’ voice reciting a Chant for the Departing.

* * *

The rest of the day is quiet and uneventful. We ride until the approaching nightfall darkens the sky. Solas points at a cluster of boulders forming a semicircle about a stone’s throw from the road, saying, “Perhaps, this is a good place to camp,” and wordlessly, we come closer and dismount.

My descent from Jack’s back is slow and doesn’t have an ounce of grace: I pause to wait out a twinge or a stab of pain, freezing in odd positions. My body is stiff, and my ass and thighs are bruised. As cliche as it sounds, _I hurt in places I didn’t know existed._ I feel like after a vigorous tumble between the sheets, multiplied twenty and without a pleasant afterglow. Being saddle sore sucks balls.

Finally on steady ground, I fumble for a healing potion. The vial slides from my fingers and falls onto the crust of snow. “Damn it!” Keeping one hand on the saddle and the other glued to my aching lower back, I take a deep breath. _You can do it. Just bend down and get it, you wimp!_ A simple task. I will get on with it in a moment.

With a sigh, Varric takes pity on me and picks up the vial. The bluish light coming from Solas’ staff colours the potion black. It swirls like oil as Varric drops the vial on my palm.

 _“Thank you!”_ I put so much feeling into this short phrase, it’s a wonder the Veil doesn’t break to rain spirits of gratitude on his head. _Ah, sweet relief of a pain-free existence._

“If it’s any consolation,” Varric says, “riding gets easier with practice.”

 _“_ Most things do,” I agree. The elfroot concoction definitely goes down better with more exposure. If I didn’t know any better, I’d call it a miraculous cure-all.

Varric pats my arm and wanders off to set a tent. I do a stretch — both to warm up and to prevent future stiffness — tie Jack’s reins to a peg Cas drove into the ground, gather my things, and follow.

“This is an excellent work, Herald,” Cas says some time later examining my tent as I emerge between the green canvas flaps. The material is treated with beeswax and should protect from the rain, but if it offers any respite from the cold remains in question.

“No need to sound so surprised. It’s basic terrain survival.”

“We didn’t know your skill set, and I assumed…” Cas’ gaze slides off the tent and moves to the tree line. A scant hundred feet from us is a dense, dark forest with only a single point of light flashing between broad trunks. “Varric and Solas went to gather firewood.” Cas catches my eyes. “Do you know how to tend to your horse?”

“I—” A quick search through the mental databanks, and I shake my head. “No. I’ve a general idea, but not the specifics.”

“Come,” Cas says, “I will show you.”

Turning his head in our direction, Jack greets me with a soft nicker.

Smiling, I pet his dark brown mane. “Hello, handsome. Cas is going to help me care for you. How does it sound?”

Jack blows a hot breath through his nose, and, taking it as a sign of agreement, I pat his back.

In the next half an hour, Cas walks me through the process of unsaddling and cleaning his coat and hooves. Without her help, I’d have screwed up: the brushes waiting in one of the saddlebags are many and various. True to Daren’s words, Jack stands still and tolerates my fumbling with a patience of a saint.

We finish up with Cas feeding and watering the mounts. I pull off my gloves and spend a little while scratching Jack’s silky ears and stroking his neck.

“Who’s a handsome boy? You are, yes, you are my handsome, strong boy,” I say, and Cas looks at me like I’ve gone completely bonkers. I don’t mind because maybe I have. The rift in my head is filled with a sloshing, roiling darkness, and a thick, impenetrable fog covers the shores. Who’s to say that I’m not certifiable? Jack, though, the poor thing did carry me on his back all day long without collapsing. He noses at my pocket. “Oh, you are a _smart_ boy!”

Jack raises his head long enough to give me a look that says, ‘Obviously,’ and returns his attention to the apple hidden in my coat. Grinning, I give him his treat and pat his neck one last time.

* * *

After a dinner of jerky, nuts, and dried fruits, Cas assigns the shifts of the watch. Evidently, we aren’t the first travellers who found shelter here — someone left two logs facing each other across a snowed over remnants of a fire. Wishing goodnight, Solas retreats into his tent, but Varric and I sit with Cas in a companionable silence. The repetitive sound of a whetstone on a blade and the warmth are soothing, and slowly, I drift off. The day’s events are catching up, and all I can do before sleep overpowers me is crawl into my waiting bedroll.

“Shiny.”

I jerk upright at Varric’s quiet voice, my eyes flying open. Heartbeat thundering in my throat, I zero in on the light coming from the tent’s entrance. All I see of Varric is an outline of his head and a part of his arm.

“What?” The word is hoarse and sharp. I swallow. “Yes?”

“It’s your turn,” Varric says. He pauses but doesn’t add anything else and lets the flap fall closed.

“Fuck,” I mutter. The air goes out of my lungs in a long exhale. Propping my elbows on my knees, I press the palms of my ice-cold hands to my eyes. Behind my eyelids, grotesque, malformed figures, assembled from body parts belonging to different people, stare at me with filmed, murky eyes, their blue, frozen lips mouth accusations. _“Fuck!”_ I shake my head and pull the bedroll open. _“_ Bloody nightmare.”

Yesterday, I forwent changing my clothes and now, looking at a mess on my leg, I deeply regret that decision. I left the scarf where it was, tied around my wound, because it was preferable to getting frostbite through a hole in my pants, but damn, did it stick to my skin. The flakes of dried blood will get everywhere, so instead of dealing with it, I leave the scarf where it is and go to relieve Varric of his duty.

The familiarity of sitting watch, the woodsy smells are a comfort. Alone with my thoughts and the crackling fire, I focus on the outside world. We pitched our tents in the shelter of the boulders, and from my place before the fire, the forest is a massive black smudge; however, if anyone decides to sneak up on us, I _will_ hear them.

The hoots of night birds and the occasional blows of breath of our mounts keep me company. A sense of serenity blankets my mind, and my breathing evens out. Slowly, the colour of the sky changes. Predawn light brightens the horizon.

Eventually, I scoop a handful of snow and dump it on the scarf, wait till it melts, and wipe the reddish-brown rivulets off my skin. The tear in my pants will be easy to mend, but the blood might not wash out. I wonder if the person who stitched my clothes will do it again and if he or she knows how to remove stains.

When the sun shows up, Cas walks out of her tent. I recognise her footsteps.

“Morning, sunshine,” I say, turning around. She is adorably rumpled, her hair sticking in all directions and an imprint of whatever she used to substitute a pillow on her face. Already in full armour, Cas stretches. I would _love_ to see the play of muscles under her skin.

“Herald. All is well?”

“Quiet and boring, yeah.”

Cas nods. “I will wake the others.”

Getting to my feet, I stretch too, bending my spine backwards until it pops. My legs tingle. I’ve sat too long in the same position. A rookie mistake. Harritt is a miracle worker — thanks to his coat, I haven’t lost feeling in my extremities yet — but the tear in my pants leaves me too exposed to the elements. Cas starts on breakfast, and I take it to mean the official end of my shift and go change.

I bundle up my old clothes and stash them at the bottom of my backpack, then pack everything else. Outside, Solas doses off on his feet while Cas ladles oatmeal into bowls and Varric saddles his pony.

Soon after, we break camp.

* * *

The next week goes in the same manner. We ride until dark, camp for the night, and move on in the morning. The only stops we make are to refill our waterskins and give the mounts a break. We don’t even need to search for water: a combination of ice and fire spells provides us with ready access to an unlimited supply.

My body is slow to adapt to the pace, and four days in, I discover that the number of my healing potions went down by half. With no promise of an alchemist, I figure it’s prudent to save them for emergencies, which means no evening dose of pain relief. Frankly, I would prefer to walk all the way to the Hinterlands, but Cas protests that I won’t be able to keep up with their speed. So I suffer in relative silence, groaning and cursing under my breath only when I get down from my horse. As far as I can tell, it doesn’t offend Handsome Jack.

Every night I go through my magic books by the firelight until the prospect of no sleep forces me to my bedroll. I wrestle with the blanket spell to no avail. Either I’m completely incompetent — which no, just no — or I’m simply not wired for finesse. Still, despite the dismal results, I cast it again and again. Stubbornness is a trait I come to appreciate in myself as it doesn’t let me give up without sufficient amount of trying.

The practical applications of most other spells, however, have to wait for the next confrontation. Surprisingly, the Imperial Highway isn’t crowded with local lowlife or either of the two warring factions of the conflict. In all this time, I haven’t seen so much as a glimpse of a templar armour or a robed figure.

Some evenings, Solas leaves snares in the woods not too far from where we stay, and the next morning, we have fresh meat. Usually, it’s small game — rabbits, squirrels, a white fox that was too adorable for me to eat, and, at last, Solas brings a nug.

“Does Leliana eat nugs?” I wonder aloud, watching Cas skin the animal. A sharp, coppery scent permeates the air, placing a biting, metallic note on my tongue. I wash it down with a mouthful of water, not taking my eyes even for a moment from Cas’ deft, bloodstained fingers.

Her knife never pauses on a hairless, pink legs as she looks up, her cheeks red as the blood dripping on the snow. “No.”

I _hmm_ , thinking about my aversion to consuming that fox. Maybe I kept one like it at some point?

“Why doesn’t she?” Solas asks, and Cas explains about our Spymaster having them as pets back at Val Royeaux.

“Oh, I’ve heard about that.” Varric leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees. His eyes are bright with curiosity. “Wasn’t her first nug a gift from the Hero of Ferelden?”

“Yes, it was.” Cas pulls the skin down. It separates from the raw meat seemingly without resistance. Raising her head, Cas pins Varric down with a heavy look and says, “His name was _Schmooples_.”

* * *

Gradually, the landscape changes. Evergreens and sparse mountain shrubbery give way to ancient oaks and maples, their naked branches stretching like skeleton arms toward the sky. The temperature increases, and when we stop for the night near an unfrozen pond, Cas proposes a swim.

A very emphatic, “Yes!” is out of my mouth before she can finish the sentence. I haven’t had a bath in so long, my shirts can stand by themselves, unsupported.

Varric chuckles at my enthusiasm.

“You wanna tell me you don’t feel crusted with last week’s sweat?”

Varric crosses his arms over his bare chest, drawing my eyes to his exceptional pectorals and a massive golden ring hanging between his collar bones. “What are you talking about?” he says, cocking his head to the side and smirking. “I always smell like morning dew and peppermint.”

Solas raises an eyebrow. “My nose disagrees.”

Mine does, too, and I hum in affirmation. After a moment, Cas clears her throat.

“I’m ready to go.”

Reluctantly, I tear my gaze off the dusting of chest hair — _damn, when will it stop being so distracting?_ — and collide with her scowl. Curiously, it is directed at Varric.

The pond sitting at the base of a rock formation is about thirty feet wide and forty long, white-red spindleweeds framing a muddy shore. I squat before a particularly large bunch and cut the plump, reeking of seaweed stems with a curved knife I keep for this exact purpose. They will fill one of Threnn’s requisitions nicely.

Having left her armour at the camp, Cas stacks her clothes into a near pile, arranging them on a flat rock with precision. The earth under her toes is barely touched by snow. I spy a smattering of freckles and several white lines of healed scars — the reminders of past battles. Twilight and a hint of decency prevent me from ogling her sexy body too much.

Her hips sway as Cas wades into the dark water holding her back straight, gentle waves lapping at her thighs. She dips all the way to her neck without a flinch.

Protected on three sides, the area is out-of-the-way, and the only easy access lies through our camp. Secluded as it is, we don’t need to stand guard, so I follow Cas’ example.

Figuring that it’s better to get over with quickly, I climb on a rocky outcrop, undress, throwing my things wherever they want to fall, and jump into the deep end. Breath sticks in my throat like a fishbone. The water is so frigid, it’s scalding.

“Argh!” My teeth instantly begin to chatter. Unsure if I want to leap out or finish with the bathing, I flounder in place. Meanwhile, Cas lathers herself up. With three powerful strokes, I swim closer to the shore and the enchanting view.

“Th-that,” I stutter, standing up and taking the soap from Cas’ offering hand, “is a very cold pond.”

Cas has unbraided her hairdo — all natural! Though her haircut is strange as fuck — and now she briefly submerges to wash off the suds. My respect for her goes through the roof. I’d catch death if I were in her place. As it is, I hardly feel my extremities. My braids will have to stay put until we reach civilisation.

“It is unfortunate,” Cas says, wringing out her hair. Water streams down her pale skin in glistening rivulets. “But I’ve had to bath in worse weather conditions.” The corners of her lips turn up in a suggestion of a smile. “When we get back to Haven, you should join me for ice swimming.”

Even the idea makes me shudder. Or maybe it’s the piercing gust of wind that comes from nowhere. After dipping in the pond, too, I follow Cas to the shore. “You are the most badass person I know. Keep it up, and I’ll compose a song in your honour.”

“I—” Cas falters, heat rises to her cheeks. This is new. She stops with her back to me, and we both pick our towels to dry off. The vigorous rubbing returns some colour to her skin. Can’t say the same about me — I’m still weirdly metallic, if more grey than blue.

“The flirting,” Cas says. She pulls on her pants and shirt, ties the laces, and looks up. “You have been doing that a lot.”

I shrug on my coat, beating the record of fast dressing. “Really?” I’d love nothing more than for sturdy leather and soft fur lining to make me instantly warm, but alas, no such luck. Shivers do not disappear. “I can stop?”

Cas huffs; a puff of air hangs in front of her face. “I do not want you to get the wrong impression. I _am_ flattered that you would consider me in such a way, but you are the Herald of Andraste and… And a woman.” Her voice goes up, and she pauses, bites the inside of her lower lip. Usually stoic and unflappable, Cas stumbles over words, her speech coming in fits and starts.

_This is priceless._

“I cannot return your affections,” Cas says at last, her muscles locking up painfully tight. She looks like she’d prefer to take on a dragon to having this conversation. Oh, what am I thinking, she _totally_ would! I snuff out the flicker of hurt and order the flood of disappointment to cut it off. I knew she isn’t into me, didn’t I?

“Relax, will ya? Just looking at your shoulders gives me cramps.” Cas doesn’t react. “I’ll try to tone it down if you are uncomfortable, but I rarely mean anything serious by it.” I shrug. “A bit of harmless fun, yeah?” Now that I think about it, I remember offering her to share a tent and a sleeping bag — for _warmth_ — and complimenting her sword technique, but I wasn’t anywhere near jumping her bones.

“I, no.” Cas shakes her head, pulls away a black strand plastered to her forehead. “I do not mind it as such. Just.” She pauses, gathers her bathing supplies. I catch her gaze. “Um.”

“You are a strong, capable, and beautiful woman, worthy of admiration and praise.” I keep my voice earnest, hoping that she will take it the right way. “And I’m happy to provide them even knowing that it will lead nowhere, as your friend. But only if you are fine with it. All right?”

Cas nods. Her posture shifts to a halfway to natural by degrees. She glances around and clears her throat. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah.” Violent shivers run over my whole body. Even my horns are affected. I think they’ve shrivelled.

Cas’ gaze sharpens, and a crease forms between her eyebrows. “Are you cold still?” She doesn’t wait for confirmation as the answer is evident. “We should get back. Varric and Solas must have already built a fire.”

“Excellent suggestion! That’s why I like you so much.” I smile with unfeeling lips and wink at her, my lashes threatening to freeze together, but Cas’ concerned expression doesn’t change. Successfully grabbing the bundle of spindleweeds on the third try, I burrow into my coat and graciously allow Cas to tow me back to the camp.

* * *

“Why didn’t you use a fire glyph?” Solas says the next morning. He is leaning on his staff, for once looking down at me.

Shivering, I blow into the bowl in my hands and slurp the broth. Cas has already given me a stern scolding, and I’m not looking forward to Solas’ lecture. She, at least, fussed over my sorry state right after — gave me an extra blanket and a damp cloth for my burning forehead. She also made me a broth with a million of herbs. I doubt Solas will provide the same treatment.

“Never heard of it.” My nose is stuffed to capacity, and so the words sound kind of funny but not. Because being down with a cold on the road is no fun. I’d like to stay in my bedroll until I stop coughing up a lung in between sneezing and leaking snot, but unfortunately, we don’t have the time.

At dawn, Cas received a letter with one of Leliana’s ravens: the mage-templar conflict had spread as far as the Crossroads.

Solas tilts his head to the side. “I was under the impression that glyphs are widely known. Perhaps, this practice has fallen out of use in recent years,” he muses.

Glad that the lecture isn’t forthcoming, I swallow half of the broth in one go. The spices are strong enough to awake my conked out taste buds. Frankly, they are sufficiently potent to raise the dead. Supposedly, they help, and if not, I’m not above setting Solas’ bed on fire in revenge. “Haven’t come across glyphs at all yet.”

“They are not hard to learn. I can teach you.” Solas pauses when I hastily put a cloth to my running nose. His lips curl, and a faint grimace of distaste settles on his face. “When you are better.”

“Yeah, thanks.” My eyes water, and I squeeze them shut. Bright spots dance in the dark. _Ugh, someone should turn off the light._ “And if I’m hopeless at them, next time I’ll bathe with you and Varric.”

* * *

Solas didn’t lie: the herbs helped. My dutiful collecting them for the requisitions during all the stops we’d made helped too because we haven’t come across spindleweed or embrium in some time. Still, the cold lasted three very miserable days.

On the fourth morning, I wake up without a headache stabbing my temples. I stumble out of my tent, and lo and behold, the sun! Cautiously, I open my eyes all the way… And don’t immediately want to dig them out of my skull.

“I can see,” I say under my breath. Then, louder, “I’m alive! It’s _fantastic!”_

All three of my companions pause whatever they are doing and look at me.

“Good to hear,” Varric says. “Maybe _now_ you’ll stop worrying about infecting your horse, hm?”

“Handsome Jack is more than just a horse,” I repeat my usual argument. “He is a friend.”

Solas stands up from his perch on a trunk of a fallen tree and gives me a rather clinical once-over. “No chest pain? Nausea?”

I shake my head — no.

“Excellent!” He links his hands behind his back. “I wasn’t sure I chose the correct dosage.”

Cas frowns in his direction. “You could have poisoned the Herald.”

“The risk was minimal.” Solas raises his head and straightens. “Besides, it was a preferable solution to allowing the illness go untreated,” he says in a haughty tone.

Smiling with all my teeth, I march to the campfire and hug him. He goes stiff as if under Paralysis or in a Force Field.

“Thank you for experimenting on me!”

“You are welcome.” Even his voice sounds rigid.

I release him and go to Cas, who returns the embrace and pats me on the back. It’s a little awkward — _need to work on that_ — but loads better than Solas’ plank imitation.

“Your cooking is a gift of the Maker,” I say into her hair. The height difference puts her head under my chin.

“She is right, Seeker,” Varric says, spooning his porridge. “I didn’t know rice cereal can taste anything other than shitty.” To illustrate his point, he sends the spoon into his mouth.

“You exaggerate,” Cas says, but when she steps back and returns her attention to the pot, hanging above the fire, I spot a pleased, little smile on her face. Progress.

* * *

“So you are a Vashoth,” Varric says two days later. He has been quiet for a while, and our mounts’ ears twitch at the sound of his voice.

I surface from a near meditative state the rhythmic swaying in the saddle and watching the trees growing on the side of the road has put me in, lean forward, and pat Handsome Jack’s neck. More as a gesture of affection than reassurance. The runes on the pillars on both sides of the Highway give off a soft glow. In a few hours, they will shine like beacons on the Waking Sea’s shore.

According to Cas, we are close to Redcliffe, for which the increasing traffic can attest. So far today, we’ve come across a dwarven caravan heading to Haven. The majority of them were workers of various trades, but I counted three merchants, riding in waggons. News of the Inquisition spread fast, but the talk is that it’s safer to travel in numbers.

Perhaps, it’s luck, or maybe just a coincidence, but we are yet to meet any hostiles. Soon, we will leave the broad Highway for smaller country roads, and that will likely change.

“A Vashoth?” I raise an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

“We’ve been travelling for days, and yet you haven’t quoted the Qun at me even once.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Solas’ ears turning in my direction. He has been keeping his distance since the Hug Incident. Can’t decide if I should tell him that he isn’t my type or let him stew. Watching his manoeuvring around me in close quarters is hilarious: he taught me how to create glyphs from the other side of a clearing. I bet he’s sure it was subtle.

“Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun,” I say, keeping a straight face, and Varric forgets to stir his pony around a pothole. Damn, I’m good. No idea where it came from, though. Just floated to the forefront of my mind. In Qunlat.

Varric looks me up and down through narrowed eyes. “You know your shit, I will give you that.”

Expression carefully blank, I catch his gaze. “Resistance is futile. Submit to the Qun.”

Giving me a quick sidelong glance, Varric forces a chuckle. Huh. I managed to freak him out. Didn’t think it possible.

“I’m still unconvinced,” he says after a pause, confidence returning to his voice. “Your mouth isn’t sewn shut, you aren’t in chains, and your hypothetical keeper is remarkably absent.” Varric raises his chin. “I’ve met only one Saarebas, and he chose death over freedom.”

Qunari do that to their mages? _Kinky._ I lift one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “Fair enough.”

An unpleasant thought crosses his mind, and Varric’s face darkens like the sky when heavy rain clouds blot the sun. Maybe he has a history with indoctrination? He shakes his head and gives me a small smile.

“You are a lucky one, Shiny,” Varric says and turns to watch the road.

* * *

Exactly one week from the start of our journey, we reach a camp on the outskirts of the Crossroads. It’s situated on a steep hill overlooking the village. Carts with supplies and hastily put together tables surround a sleeping area. Some scouts gather near a field kitchen, others snore in tents.

“The Herald of Andraste! I’ve heard the stories.” A cure dwarf in piecemeal armour looks up and up and up at me. Yeah, I should definitely get down. I slide from Handsome Jack’s back — I’m getting better at it — and offer her the hand not holding the reins.

Around us, conversations are put on hold as people listen for my response.

“No need for formalities, just call me Her-of-A.”

“Herofa?” the dwarf repeats. Her forehead and freckled nose wrinkle.

“Um-hum. For short.” I smile, demonstrating most of my teeth. They are straight, white, and sharp.

A human scout takes the reins, and I thank him.

The dwarf stares at me, her sparkly-eyed, enthusiastic attitude dimming. “Right.” Whatever she heard about me must have left out my winning personality.

“We might not know a lot about the Qunari,” she continues, “but you will have no back talk from anyone here. That’s a promise. Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. I — all of us — will do whatever we can to help.”

“Harding, huh?” Varric says, joining me on the ground. “Ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?”

Harding transfers her gaze to a point five inches about my waist and to the left — to Varric. “Can’t say that I have. Why?”

“You’d be Harding in… Oh, never mind.”

Cas makes a disgusted noise and a face to go with it.

“Stories?” I prompt.

Harding nods. “They say that you are the last great hope for Thedas.”

 _Fuck me sideways._ “Well, isn’t that a heap of expectations to match.”

“The Hinterlands are as good a place as any to start fixing things,” Harding says after a brief pause, crossing her arms. “We came to secure horses from Redcliffe’s old horsemaster. I grew up here, and people always said that Dennet’s herds were the strongest and fastest this side of the Frostbacks. But with the fighting getting worse, we couldn’t get to Dennet. Maker only knows if he is still alive.”

In short order, she apprises us on the situation: Mother Giselle is helping refugees and the wounded. Corporal Vale directs our men to do what they can to help protect the people, but they won’t be able to hold out very long, so we need to hurry the fuck up and assist them. As if us four is an equivalent of a whole army. Well. Cas can be a stand-in for a platoon, so maybe Harding isn’t too far off the mark.

Before going down, I take the opportunity to survey the terrain. The village, aptly named for sitting on several crossroads, is built like an onion — in layers of protective walls and fortifications. The streets are empty, and only a monument of a woman — Andraste, because who else could it be — rises above houses and barns. I estimate its height as at least fifty feet.

“What is it with religious statues and massive sizes? Is it like, the bigger, the more reverence it’s meant to convey?”

“It’s a sign of respect for the Holy Lady,” Cas replies, joining me at the rough-hewn fence going along the cliff side of the hill.

“Hn. Money better spent elsewhere. On orphans, infirm, and widows with children, to start with.”

“It’s not that simple, Shiny, but I agree,” Varric says from somewhere behind me. “The higher-ups in Val Royeaux could have helped us more in the aftermath of the shit storm in Kirkwall.”

Cas frowns. “The Chantry helps those in need! Divine Justinia saw to that.”

“If you say so,” I mutter, losing interest in the subject.

“While I support the Herald’s opinion,” Solas says, “this statue is older than the Andrastian religion. It was built by the Avvar tribes and represents Tyrdda Bright-Axe, Avvar-Mother.”

A crystalline blast of ice spikes from the earth near the Crossroads’ outer circle, and a flash of a fire spell follows a moment later. The fighting has started again.

I clap my hands, and the abrupt sound forestalls whatever debate was about to begin. “Right. Let’s get moving.”

We leave the mounts at the camp — I with a parting hug and a whispered endearment to Handsome Jack, and Cas slipping her horse a piece of apple — and go down a steep dirt road, covered with a thin layer of snow. Passing scouts give us hopeful looks, and the pressure to live up to their expectations builds like the Great Wall. Brick by brick, it will continue until it runs for miles in both directions, separating me from sound sleep forever and ever. With a shake of my head, I dismiss the thought. To hell with it! I refuse to be held prisoner to the weathervane of a crowd’s opinion.

Steel clangs. That’s the first indication that we are close. The second is the cries of the wounded and dying. The third is the bodies. Mages in robes, templars in their ridiculous, long-skirted armour, all recently departed, if the seeping blood is anything to go on. Not the warmest welcome, but what did I expect, rushing into battle?

The road lies between two large, blocking the view boulders, and when I run past them, I come into a pandemonium. Everything is fire and ice — burning crates and carts dropped in the middle of a road, frozen patches of earth and thawing corpses.

With a cursory glance, I see what Harding meant: Inquisition soldiers, engaged with both templars and mages, give as good as they get, but the combined assault of two forces press them closer and closer to the village’s buildings.

Bellowing, “For the fucking Justice and the American way!” I pivot, hit the ground with my staff, and let a chain lightning fly. It strikes three different templars. _Huh._ Metal is a very conductive material. I knew that, but to see it in person is a whole other can of poisonous, radioactive, glowing in the dark worms. Stomping on the rising head of remorse — the time to grieve will come later when the lives of my people aren’t on the line — and breathing solely through the mouth, I mind blast a rogue who’s gotten too close. A bolt through the temple finishes him off.

“Thanks, Varric!”

His shot saved me from the front row view of the devastation my magic can cause.

“It’s the Herald!” a man shouts in a voice thick with wonder and relief. A woman picks it up. “The Herald of Andraste is here!” And a chorus cries like a broken echo: “For the Herald! For Andraste! For the Inquisition!”

Like a late summer rain on a dried out land, the news of our — my — arrival revive the troops. Our soldiers redouble their effort. But so do their — our — enemies.

A new wave of templars comes running into the fray, footsteps heavy enough to send vibrations through the slush, and Cas shouts, “We are not mages!”

“Speak for yourself.” I am emphatically a mage.

To show how much of a mage I am, I set the ground under a hostile spellslinger on fire. Burning reduces his concentration to shit, and his pull on the Fade energy falters. It feels like a rubber band returning to its resting form, only in slow motion.

“Stop fighting us!” Cas continues. In vain, of course. The templars keep on keeping on. I spare her half a glance as Cas blocks an incoming blade, catching it on her shield. _Damn, that woman is one hell of a warrior._ Cas uses her shield to physically move her enemy — a man twice her width and double _my_ weight — and he stumbles a step backwards. _Pity, she doesn’t swing my way. I—_

Pain surges through my rib cage. My heels plough the mud, leaving deep, messy lanes behind, as the force of a massive stone fist connecting with my chest sends me tumbling. I end up on my ass. Together, my tailbone, ribs, and innards form a band and screech in the best traditions of death metal. Looks like the hostile spellslinger has put out the flames.

The mage is a smart fucker: he hunkers down behind a rough stone wall. All I see is the end of his staff as he cast another spell. I put a barrier just in time to cancel out the effect of his Winter’s Grasp and avoid the fate of a tableau in the centre of the village — a group of templars frozen solid, two of them in midstep, all with raised swords. Time to chug a healing potion.

Several other mages run out of the woodwork, and Solas makes an attempt to reach them. “We are not templars. We mean you no harm!”

He gets the same result as Cas did and a fireball to the face besides. It dispels before doing him any harm, but the message is clear.

“I don’t think they care, Chuckles,” Varric says. Bianca’s release mechanism clicks, and a bolt bites into the meat of a mage’s arm, interrupting her casting.

The mage behind the wall is gearing up for a new spell, so I do what comes naturally: bullshit my way through the situation.

“Make love, not war!” I shout, waving my staff like a flag. “Fight with us, not against us! Join the Inquisition to kill demons and get paid for it!”

And what d’you know, it works. The smart mage stays where he is, safe behind the thick brick and magical barriers. None of his kith, however, possesses his level of intelligence, and neither do the templars. They throw themselves into the battle with more fervour.

I cast a barrier over our scouts. They form a shield wall.

With crazed eyes and snarling mouths, the mages hurl spell after spell at us, the templars, a stray dog, hunkering down behind a cart… at anyone in the way, basically. The templars batter the shields of our soldiers. It’s hard to tell with their helmets on, but I imagine they look no different from the mages.

Chain lightning to the tin cans, immolate to the pants-haters, a barrier over myself and allies, rinse and repeat. In the heat of battle, time ceases to exist. At one moment, it flies with the speed of light, everything happening too fast and all at once. In the next, it crawls like a dead snail sliding from a wilted flower stem. Agonisingly slow.

A lucky bastard gets a drop on me, plunging his sword just as my barrier falls. Cas shouts a warning, and I turn, but I’d never come away from the blow with only a minor wound if not for Varric, Solas, and our archers. Cas’ cry alerts all the fighters, and the templar drops dead at my feet, a porcupine in holey plate armour.

I look at my hip. Adrenaline blocks the pain, but as soon as I see the damage, it _hurts_. The bastard managed to cut me exactly where the demon’s icy blast had. “Fuck! This is my second to last pants!” I shouldn’t have bothered to change out of the ripped ones. At this rate, I’ll get back to Haven in my underwear, showing off my miles long legs, perky ass, and frostbite from the ninth circle of hell.

A healing energy washes over my leg, and the muscle, skin, arteries, and whatever else is bleeding all over the cut in the dyed leather revert to the healthy state bypassing the pesky itch of an elfroot potion. The magic has a familiar but unexpected signature — a unique flavour. I follow it to the source, and sure enough, that smart fucker just saved me a lot of pain. He is getting a raise. Right after he officially accepts the job. This must be a record.

Glancing around, I spot Cas running a templar through like he is wearing a paper bag and a sheet of foil. Solas, his face a carefully blank canvas, creates a translucent fist and smashes nearby mages to the ground. Unlike my stone fists, which break down after impact, his simply dissipates.

Varric’s having fun with Bianca, firing bolt after bolt in quick succession. The scouts, less in number than they were in the beginning, keep the rest of the templars and mages occupied. I rejoin the fight.

Long story short, we exterminate the hostiles.

“That’s all of them,” Cas says with a little sigh tacked onto the end of the sentence when new threats fail to appear. She wipes her forehead with the part of her gauntlet where it ceases to be metal and becomes leather.

One of the soldiers gives me the usual salute — closed fist to his heart and a light bow. I acknowledge him with a nod. He joins others who check for survivors, helping wounded and bypassing the dead for now. Varric — good man — loots the bodies. Standing near a small pond, Solas leans on his staff, his eyes half closed.

I take stock of myself. Cut and bloodied pants? Check. Sweaty as a horse after a race? Check. An inappropriate, wide grin? Check. Time to meet new people!

“Hey, you, healer! Come out to play.”

A blond head belonging to a man in mid to late thirties rises above the stone wall, takes a look around, moves along to the right until the rest of the body comes into view. The man’s patched up and freshly singed robe has seen better days, and his boots are a breath away from falling apart. His staff, however, is in pristine condition. This mage has his priorities straight. I approve. The orb on the staff’s head catches and reflects light, sending sunbeams dancing as he walks.

“You said I’ll get paid,” he says without preamble. “I take the deal.”

“Right to the point?” I raise a brow.

The man shrugs. “I have a group of younglings to take care of. We — my partner and I —haven’t been able to find a job in a long time. People are either afraid of us or angry with us. Scraping enough food to feed the kids is tough.” Lacklustre blond strands fall across his face as he shakes his head. Then I’m in the crosshair of his startlingly blue eyes. “Older apprentices can do research, and I and Sol will do whatever it is you require.” He blinks, breaking our intense eye contact just when I start to worry I’ll have to do it first. “Though I draw the line at demon summoning.”

I snort. “No need to summon them when they rain down on us on their own.”

The man’s well-defined shoulders move in another shrug. “We had a hazing ritual at Kinloch. A dare for the newly harrowed.” His lips tighten, and the corners of his mouth point down. “It didn’t always end well.”

“Hm. If you want, you can take a dip in an icy lake with Cas, or try to outdrink a Qunari when we have one on hand.” A nagging wisp of thought tells me that I’m overlooking something. Or several somethings. It’s as useful as a note, instructing you to remind Mike to remind Carrie to visit the bank for _‘the thing’_ in the vaguest of terms when you have no idea who Mike _or_ Carrie even are. Handy like an umbrella underwater, and still, it won’t go away.

A crooked smile stretches the man’s lips. “Tried the lake already. Had to treat myself for a cold.” _Ha!_ “If it’s all the same, I’ll pick the drinking. Haven’t had a sip of a decent wine since the Circle.”

“We find a Qunari, I’ll arrange it. In the meantime, I know just the place near our headquarters.”

The man eyes me up and down, gaze lingering on the horns, and frowns. “I’m sorry, but aren’t you—?” He gestures at my hot bod.

“I’m a Vashoth, apparently.” I expect questions, but all he says is an almost inaudible,

“Ah.”

“Moving on. You look like a sensible sort, caring for kids and all. What were you doing here, fighting along with those nutsos in the first place?”

His vivid eyes turn flat. “I came to the Crossroads to trade. You attacked.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Now I feel bad about it. I could have killed him with that immolation spell. He’s lucky I didn’t overpower it, or I’d be looking at a pile of charred bones instead of a handsome mage. “But you know what they say about defensive offence, and all that. And in all honesty, I was sure you were with the madhouse escapees over there.” I motion at the bodies. “You have an awful fucking timing, my good man.”

He follows the direction of my hand, sighs. “I was looking for a job. I found it.” He glances at his robe. “No _significant_ harm done.”

I offer him a hand. He takes it, and we pump twice. “Welcome to the Inquisition, healer, and thanks for patching me up.”

The man nods, his eyes catch on something to my left, and his shoulders relax. The death grip he has on his staff loosens. He looks back at me, and his voice is resolute when he says, “My name is Keith, Herald.”

“Rae.” I smile. “A pleasure to have you around.”

Cas joins me, and Keith fades into the background. Although I don’t feel a disturbance in the Force, I swear, he uses some kind of magic to do it. That, or he has a rogue’s trick up his voluminous sleeve.

_Note to self: find whoever’s in charge of provisions around here and arrange Keith a new outfit._

As I walk with Cas, Varric and Solas fall in behind us.

“Who was that?” Varric asks. “He looks awfully familiar.”

“Our newest recruit. Said his name’s Keith.” I glance at Varric over my shoulder. “Think you know him?”

Frowning, he shakes his head. “It’s not that. Just…” Varric squints, searching the healer, but the man’s disappeared. “He looks like he could be Hawke’s brother.”

Cas whirls on him. “What are you saying, Varric? You think the Champion has another sibling?”

“No, Seeker.” Varric exhales through his nose, loudly. “The Hawkes took after their father. That mage is a blond, male version of Leandra Amell.”

* * *

Mother Giselle is, indeed, tending to a wounded man, as advertised.

After some wandering, I identify her by the ridiculously tall headdress. Whoever designed it must have never worn it himself because that thing looks like a headache-inducing back killer.

“Hush, child,” a black woman in the white-and-red chantry outfit says, touching a man’s right arm. Her soft, heavily accented voice outs her as Orlesian. “There are mages who can heal you. Let them help.”

With a moan, the man props himself on an elbow. His pained eyes are wide and fearful. “N-no, Mother. Don’t let them near me!” His head rolls to the side. Little dots of sweat pepper the pallet. His left arm is a mess of blistered, half-cooked meat.

Revered Mother sighs. “Lie still, dear boy.”

“Their magic—” the soldier starts, and a mage standing behind Mother Giselle shakes his head.

“Will heal you,” I snap. The man’s feverishly bright eyes land on me. “Are you a complete moron or is it like a reoccurring affliction — happens from time to time?”

“W-what?”

“The Inquisition has no need of idiots.” Behind me, I hear a sudden intake of breath, but I stay focused on the soldier. “They’re only good at finding creative ways of dying the stupidest of deaths.” I level at him a hard look, and he flinches. “Either take the help of a nice man willing to provide it despite your bullshit, or slap a poultice and hope for the best with elfroot.” I pause for a moment, the drum of heartbeat roars in my ears. “And get the hell out of the ranks. We are fighting demons. There is no room for fucking around and indulging in prejudices.”

Murmurs break out like pimples on an adolescent’s face. I block them out. The battle high has worn off, and now the smell of death and sickness surrounding the area like a thick dust cloud clogs my throat. For a moment, the funeral pyre overlaps the scene, hanging above the sickbeds and their occupants like a foreshadowing mirage. I force the content of my stomach back where it belongs. “Well?”

“I…” The soldier swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I will submit to the magical healing,” he says, looking away.

Nodding, I step backwards from the head of his pallet. Getting up, Mother Giselle follows me, and the healer takes her place, kneeling by the injured man’s side.

“That was too harsh,” Revered Mother says with only a slight reprimand in her tone. It’s hard to place her age. The deep worry lines around her mouth and goose feet under her eyes say that she is at least thirty, but the overall impression sets her closer to fifty. In truth, she can be anywhere under seventy.

“I call it _efficient_.” I watch as the soldier’s appendage starts to resemble an arm again. Keith materialises from nowhere and joins in on the effort. His hands glow blue and the healing process speeds up. I turn to Mother Giselle. “What use is there for a one-armed archer?”

The skin around her keen brown eyes has a pinched look that speaks of displeasure, so I conclude that she disapproves. Surprisingly, she lets the matter go.

“You are the one they call the Herald of Andraste,” Mother Giselle says instead of grilling me on my bedside manner.

“Yeah, and why shouldn’t they?” I cant my head to the side, catching sight of a small bird sitting on a gutter of a rounded house up the three steps long stairway behind the makeshift infirmary. The bird’s bright plumage stand out in stark contrast to the drab greys and browns prevalent in the village. “It’s my name.”

“What do you mean?” Mother Giselle asks.

The bird turns its head to the side, mimicking my gesture, and watches me with its left eye.

“My name is Herald of the clan Andraste.” The bird is staring at me. I blink and transfer my gaze to Revered Mother, who is also staring at me.

“Her-rald,” the bird parrots in a creaky voice. The r’s roll like dice across a board: r-r-r—r. “Of Andr-raste.”

Mother Giselle fails to react, so I pretend not to hear it either. “You have a problem with it?”

“Herald.” The way her lips form a moue of distaste, I can tell it pains Mother Giselle to address me by this title. “There is no need to be facetious.”

“On the contrary, your reverence, I find being faceted a vast improvement over my current vision. It’s a shame it can’t be achieved outside of dreams, don’t you agree?”

She regards me with an expression of a caretaker fed up with the misbehaving of a recalcitrant child forcefully put in her care.

“Her-rald,” the bird says again, louder this time. “Of Andr-raste.”

I glance at it from the corner of my eye. The bird takes several hopping steps down the length of the gutter, bringing us closer, and repeats for the third time, with a slight difference, “Her-ra-ld” — in three syllables where only two should be possible — “of _Andr-raste!_ ”

Turning only the upper part of my body, I face it. Looking me in the eyes, the bird bobs its head — a nod? — jumps, and takes flight. A yellow feather sinks to the muddy earth below, carried on the dying wind.

“Herald!” Mother Giselle says, startling me. Behind her shoulder, Cas looms like a particularly concerned shadow. I try to reassure her with a glance, but the crease between her eyebrows stays put. At this rate, Cas’ll get premature wrinkles.

“Your reverence?”

“I know of the Chantry’s denouncement, and I’m familiar with those behind it.” Mother Giselle walks up the stairway and down the narrow trail between crates stacked along the edge of a naturally raised ground and the rounded house. I follow. My companions keep a step behind. “I won’t lie to you: some of them are grandstanding, hoping to increase their chances of becoming a new divine.”

Giselle stops on a patch of empty space, crates boxing it up, and together, we watch the people of the Crossroads.

“Some are grieving, and others are terrified,” Revered Mother continues. “So many people, senselessly taken from us…”

Gaunt-faced refugees have come out of hiding and mill about the village like restless souls on a graveyard. The unmistakable odour of unwashed bodies and festering wounds makes me want to reconsider my stance on the importance of breakfast. Our soldiers have put up a banner with the Inquisition emblem — a sunburst eye on a sword. It sways. The wind has picked up.

“I wish to help you,” Giselle says. We lock eyes. “Fear makes us unreasonable, but not beyond hope. Go to them, convince the remaining clerics that you are not a demon. They have heard only frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe.”

“Everyone but the Chantry clerics looks at me as a saviour. That can make a girl start second-guessing her value, you know.”

Ignoring my remark, Revered Mother ploughs on. “You needn’t convince them all, just make some of them doubt. Their power is in their unity. Take that from them, and you will have the time you need.”

“Sounds like a piece o’ cake.”

“I honestly don’t know if you were touched by fate or sent to help us, but I hope… Hope is—” Mother Giselle continues speaking. I’m sure, whatever she tells me is moving and highly motivational, but a flight feather, travelling on a gust of wind, settles in the crook of my elbow. I touch the tiny, yellow thing and carefully tuck it into my coat’s inner pocket.


	4. Hinterlands

“You are with the Inquisition?” a man overlooking the scouts’ training says. We’ve climbed a small hill to find another camp clinging to the mountain at its back and this man with the air of authority about him in its middle. “Corporal Vale.” He inclines his head. “Thank you for your help.”

It’s a refreshing change — not to be instantly recognised as the Herald of Blah-Blargh. Wish we had more Vashoths around. The anonymity of a crowd would be a welcome relief.

“The mages and templars do not care who’s caught in the middle of their fighting,” Vale continues. Dark circles under his bloodshot eyes look like bruises.

“Bandits, demons, mages, and templars,” Solas says. “The refugees are in dire need of help.”

Corporal Vale glances at him and nods. “They are. If the war doesn’t kill them, cold and starvation will.”

“What other problems do the refugees have? I’d like the full list, please,” I say.

Vale crosses his arms over his chest plate and looks at me. He’s surprisingly tall for a human — about ten inches shorter than me, Vale needs to raise his head only slightly to maintain eye contact. “We’ve got some injuries that go beyond the help of stitches and elfroot. I know healers are in short supply, but if you can find someone in Redcliffe, it would save a lot of lives.”

The same Redcliffe, whose gates have been closed last week and where the real rebel mages, not those power-addled monkey-brains that keep attacking everyone in sight, are holed up in as the gossip around the village says. A shiver runs up the back of my neck. My right horn itches, so I scratch it. Something tells me we are going to have a problem with this request.

“Consider it done.”

Vale nods.

“No, really,” I say, seeing that he doesn’t get it. “I’ve already found you a new healer. Keith is down there, helping in the infirmary.”

The corporal blinks. “That was fast.” Then a hint of a smile appears in the corners of his mouth, underneath his patchy facial hair — a bleak result of his attempt to grow out a beard and a moustache, stomped by genetics and age. “I hope you can resolve our other difficulties just as fast.”

Moving on, Vale directs us up another hill to a hunter, who has ideas on dealing with the food shortage. Vale makes broad, sweeping gestures as he talks, and his youthful face reflects every emotion he feels. An honest man, barely out of adolescence.

Vale’s request of blankets fell through: the Inquisition’s resources are tight as a scrooge’s purse strings. A recruit Wiggle — Whiggle? Whittle? Wiggle-Biglle! — is in charge of whatever they have, so we need to speak with him, too.

“Templars?” I prompt, and Vale scowls.

“All the templars have headed to Val Royaux by now. They have orders to gather there. These bastards” — Vale spits the word like the foulest curse imaginable — “ignored the order. And now they are killing mages and anyone they suspect of being a mage sympathiser. Every templar I’ve ever known has wanted to protect the common folk. These men defile their Order’s good name.”

Can’t say I have the same respect for the Order, but no organisation consists purely of evil psychos. Unless it’s stated in the entry requirements.

Vale marks Master Dennet’s farm on Cas’ map, and we move on.

First, we find the hunter’s hut — a round one-story building, a popular design in this area. The door is ajar, so I have no compunction about entering. I even knock, once and lightly. Varric follows. Solas and Cas stay behind.

The hunter is absent. The salty smell of cured meat fills my mouth with the urge to bite into a ram’s leg, but I exercise restraint. Besides, I’d regret eating as soon as we step out into the open and the residual smoke of burning pyres reaches my nose. Even at a glance, I can tell that food supplies are at their end: all parts, hanging from a rafter, belong to one animal.

Varric’s quick fingers snatch a folded piece of parchment from a side table. His eyes scan the uneven, jolty lines. I read over his shoulder.

“Maker, my editor would have killed him,” Varric mutters. “It’s worse than Bartrand’s attempts at poetry.”

I wince. Between misspellings and awful grammar, it’s hard to grasp what happened, but I manage. The templars had terrorised a group of elderly refugees — beat them up and took their provisions; then apostates came and attacked everyone with fire-based spells. When templars came out on top and the apostates skedaddled, one tin can stayed behind to put down survivors and loot the bodies. The hunter killed him to prevent the rape of a burn victim, who died shortly after, and now he suffers PTSD.

Gods.

Knowing this story, the regret over taking human lives I’ve been suppressing with all my might withers away and turns to ash. I need to learn necromancy so I can raise those bastards and kill them again.

My tone is flippant when I ask, “That bad?”

Varric puts the note on the table, his shoulders — an electric wire of tension. “Worse,” he says, looking at his clenched fists.

* * *

I agree to hunt rams for meat for the hunter and apostates for blankets for recruit Whittle and to track down a son of an old elf. I agree to a lot of hunting all around. The last one is the simplest matter: just find a man and deliver the news of his mother’s sickness. Why only he can make a potion to help with her lung disease is beyond me, but I’m no alchemist. So I ask Solas.

“I know which potion this woman needs,” Solas says after a pause for forehead wrinkling and thoughtful humming. “Unfortunately, I am unfamiliar with the recipe. We will have to find this Hyndrel, I’m afraid.”

“Can’t you take a nap and consult a spirit?”

“I—” A peculiar expression crosses Solas’ face, as though a lovely but not too bright dog has just finished his crossword. “We will have to collect the herbs for it since we are out of embrium, but yes. It is possible.”

“Excellent!” I say, clapping my hands. “That should go quicker than scouring the entire Hinterlands for one person.” Of course, I’ll be on the look-out for him anyway. Hyndrel did join a cult that has a potential to be useful.

We swing by the forward camp to get our backpacks and head out into the Great Unknown. I mean, Cas has the map and all, but for me, it’s just a never-ending parade of trees, ponds, waterfalls, boulders, and mountains. Or very tall hills. At times, it’s hard to tell them apart. Oh, well. At least, it’s not so cold anymore.

As we leave the village behind, I breathe in, filling my lungs with sweet, clean air for what feels like the first time in hours.

“Rifts take priority above everything else,” I decide aloud.

Cas nods. “Our scouts keep watching the known rifts from a distance and warn people off going near them, but refugees coming from the south often get too close and inadvertently cause them to reopen.” She scowls as if the these folks’ inability of following simple instructions is a personal affront. “A helpful scout showed me the locations. We shouldn’t encounter any difficulties finding them.”

Famous last words.

“Are you sure it’s this hill and not the opposite?” I bend over with my hands on knees, panting. Sweat dampens the back of my shirt, and I shiver as the icy gust of wind sneaks its fingers between my scarf and coat collar. “We’ve been here, like, three times already.”

“Twice, Shiny,” Varric says. He sets his backpack on the ground and rummages inside.

Cas glares at the broken edges of a bridge that should be connecting this hill with the next. The ravine between them is a long way down. “It should be here somewhere.”

Her voice is tightly controlled, but the fierce scowl Cas directs at the trees and road markers can scar small children for life. Understandable, of course. I’d be frustrated, too, if rifts conspired to spite me by hiding.

“Should have taken the other road, Seeker,” Varric says and hides from her ire behind his waterskin. “I’m just saying…”

“Maybe now I can have a look at your map, Cassandra?” Solas says. He uses his staff for support. The whole naked expanse of his head is glittering with sweat. He has been quietly smug after Cas led us here the second time, but I guess he is too winded to gloat over his victory right now. “I distinctly remember seeing a landmark just like that one” — Solas points at the obelisk on the opposite hill — “near the spot we seek.”

Cas growls. “Fine.” Swinging her backpack so she can look inside, she takes out a leather tube and flings it at Solas’ face. It hits him square in the nose. “Let us hope you have better luck,” Cas says. It sounds rather waspish — like what she really means is that he’ll fail. Spectacularly.

Solas’ hand glows with a quick healing spell, weak and unfocused, just enough for a scraped knee or a headache but not much else. Spirit healer he is not, even I can sense and see that. He purses his lips and raises his head to look at her down his nose. “Thank you.”

Cas grinds her teeth, her nostrils flare.

I wave my arms between them. “Break it up, children! I wanna kill something, and if we don’t find a bunch of demons soon, it’s gonna be one of you.”

Solas sniffs and, turning on his heels, marches down the hill. Sighing, I trail after, to the bottom of the ravine… and straight into a mage-templar skirmish.

High on her rage, Cas cuts into the fight like an icebreaker into a snow crust.

“Kill the warri—!” an apostate shouts.

I silence him with a stone fist to the mouth. The force of the blow crushes his face into a bloody paste. I look away. My stomach rebels nonetheless. Next thing I know, I’m crouching over a bush, an acidic taste in my mouth. Protective barrier sets over my back. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Cas fighting two templars at once not ten feet from me.

Spitting, I fumble for my staff and blast the tin cans with chain lightning. It jumps from one templar to another, temporarily stunning them. Taking the opportunity, Cas drives her sword past the first templar’s defences, hamstringing the bastard. He goes down on one knee. Cas swings the sword in a wide arc, momentarily exposing her side, but before anyone can exploit it, I follow up with an electric bolt, something I’ve never tried.

The second templar goes rigid, spasms shaking his body. His weapon never makes it near Cas.

A wet splash and a thud sound. A head in a helmet rolls down the road, leaving a red trail behind. The rest of the third templar falls to the wayside, blood gushing out of the stump of his neck in fits and bursts. My warrior goddess focuses on the remaining tin can. As soon as the effects of the spell end and his body slumps in a boneless heap, Cas ends his worthless existence.

Solas jumps off a boulder he climbed earlier. With my height, it’s not a necessity, but for him and Varric, more often than not, having the high ground is vital.

“You fought well,” he says, looking at Cas. An offer of a truce.

“Thank you.” She inclines her head. “You, too.” Accepted.

Varric comes into my line of sight and wordlessly hands me his waterskin. I sit on my haunches and wash away the awful taste, corpses of our enemies lying around like broken dolls. Overlapping them are different bodies. They bleed on their uniforms from gunshot wounds, darkening shades of green and khaki. I close my eyes. The air tastes hot and coppery, stale.

Hatred floods my veins, makes it hard to breathe. For me, this war has just begun. I loathe it, them, the whole fucked up situation so fucking much, it burns worse than the stomach acid lingering at the base of my throat. I want this all to end.

“Shiny?” Varric says, concern in his voice.

As quickly as they came, the image shatters, the feelings recede. Suddenly, I’m fine. The sight before me doesn’t incite the need to rip the world apart and rebuilt it anew, without violence as a concept. It’s just a job. And one I’m good at, too.

What in the bloody hell was that? My subconscious is a screwed up place.

I blink at Varric, feeling completely bewildered. “Yes?”

He is silent for a moment. Behind his short and broad frame, Cas and Solas go through the loot. Templar armour clangs when they turn their dead owners without care. The skin around Varric’s eyes tightens; he bites the inside of his lower lip.

“Need a hand?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Varric hoists me up, and we join in stripping pieces of equipment for sale.

“Do we have to do all the dirty work ourselves?” I ask as we pile up the dead for the last rites. “We are on the very top of the chain of command, Cas, why don’t we have henchmen? I want henchmen!”

“We can delegate it to the scouts,” Cas says thoughtfully, “but these bodies will lie here while our people arrive to take care of them.”

I imagine them after several days of decomposition. Ugh. “Ripe corpses are the worst.”

“The veil is thin here,” Solas says, intently staring at thin air. Maybe he can actually see that elusive curtain. “I wouldn’t recommend leaving readily available hosts for demons to possess.”

“Right.” The irony wouldn’t be lost on me if demons take over them and we end up having to fight them again.

And, well, even despicable human — and elven, in the case of some of the apostates — beings deserve better than being a meal for predators. Besides, spoilt meat can cause diseases. So we give them to fire.

No matter how often I endure it, the smell doesn’t become any more bearable.

* * *

“Get ready. Demons ahead,” Solas says what feels like an eternity of climbing over a different hill later. 

A green crystal of a rift is visible for all to see. It hangs in plain sight next to an open gateway in a truly impressive fortification wall spanning the road and thus connecting two hills. The walkway atop it ends with a watchtower on either side. I don’t see anyone alive there.

“This is the Redcliffe Road.” Cas’ voice is void of inflexions. “All this time we have been circling it when we could have walked out of the Crossroads and be here in less than five minutes.” As Cas speaks, her words gain volume and her cheeks — colour. “I’m going to murder that scout!” she growls.

Great. We’ve sent three hours down the drain. “I’ll help you dispose of the body.”

“Don’t worry about an alibi,” Varric says. “Nobody will suspect a thing.”

The usual collection of demons attack. Shades and wraiths are relatively easy to deal with and utterly predictable. Boring. The fight goes as expected, with Cas holding the front line and the rest of us hurling spells and bolts from a distance, until the rift spits out an insectoid with a many-eyed octopus attached to its face. Long limbed, it jumps around like a grasshopper, popping in and out of the Fade like a squirrel on crack.

A dried husk of a body appears right before my face, green wisps of the very fabric of the veil curling about its deformed appendages like whiffs of smoke. The demon lunges. I stumble-jump back, losing balance and going down on my ass. Huh, my lack of grace’s just saved me from needing reconstructive surgery! I cast a mind blast. Nothing. Sharp claws swipe the air above my horns, and a thick tail lashes out.

On instinct, I raise my left hand to protect myself and get a blunt end of the tail across the forearm. The reinforced leather of my coat and the rapidly thinning barrier don’t hold a candle to the brute force of the blow. A bone cracks. It hurts. Tears spring to my eyes, clouding my vision. For a breathless moment, everything is sharp, raw, and hopeless. I scream.

The air currents shift.

“Protect the Herald!” Cas shouts.

A new barrier covers me just as the demon goes for another swing. In desperation, I thrust the upper end of my staff into its stomach and cast the strongest Winter’s Grasp to date. Wrong move. Ice encases the demon, solidifying it into the ugliest statue in the world, and from its midriff sticks my wonderful staff, frozen in as a part of the sculpture.

“Damn,” I half-moan, half-growl. Can’t decide if I’m angry, or tired, or what. It’s just fucking unfair — I’ve only got my hands on this staff a couple of weeks ago. And it’s been such a long, hungry, exhausting day with no end, and pain, and terror, and despair in store… I’m so damn tired and hurt, I’d lie right here, before this very hideous statue and wait till I die. No need to move then.

…Wait a minute, a rational thought scratches at the door of my rapidly packing up for vacation consciousness, this isn’t like you at all.

I pause. Play back the log of my thought process. It really isn’t.

“Fucking dementors!”

With my good hand, I haul the staff out of the icy prison. Cracks form around the grip, but the layer of ice is too thick. The shaft breaks. I stagger backwards with the two-thirds of my once beautiful, reliable weapon. What a fucking way to lose it.

Useless without a head to amplify magic, my staff transforms into a club. A wry twist of lips — that joke has just caught up with me and bitten my ass — and I toss the staff to the ground. I need my one working hand to cast. Gathering energy, I make a fist and mimic a punch. A stone fist crashes into the frozen demon, shattering it into chunks and slivers of demonic icicles.

Just in time. With nothing to obscure my view, I enjoy the sight of Cas, her body — a taut line of leashed power, thrusting her sword through a despair demon.

The spiked crystal of the rift sucks in the green mist left after despair’s disintegration and goes into stasis, reminding me of its existence.

I fumble for a potion, stop with the bottle halfway to my mouth, and curse. The bend of my left forearm is plainly wrong. Can’t heal it properly without setting the bones first.

“Hey.” It comes out as a barely audible rasp. I clear my throat. “Who wanna visit pain upon me?”

Cas’ head shoots up. “What’s the matter, Herald?”

Solas takes one look at my arm, straightens up from his crouch next to something I can’t quite see, and moves in my direction.

“I will assist you,” he says in a tone of voice that brooks no argument. That’s fine by me. I’d like to get it over with and drink the damn potion ASAP.

Although Cas is a good distance farther, she reaches me at the same moment as Solas. A frown lies between Cas’ brows even before she assesses the damage.

I smile for her benefit.

“Will you hold my hand, gorgeous?” The last word is an intentional throwback to our first day together, and we both know it. I doused that torch in the ice-cold waters of the pond.

“Of course,” Cas says. Her hold is gentle, like she is afraid of causing discomfort.

“I can’t leave you for two minutes, Shiny.” Varric shakes his head and joins our little group in trampling frozen demonic remains. Their crunch sounds like heavenly music and angels singing to my ears. “Tell me again why did you leave that healer behind?”

“Because I’m a soft-hearted idiot?” Refugees’ already existing and very real wounds took priority over our hypothetical and possible ones.

“Ready?” Solas asks, touching my useless limb. This is the closest he has come near me in days.

I turn my head away and stare into Cas’ eyes.

“Shoot.”

I assume Solas pulls the bones into place because pain lances through my arm, quick and blinding. My grip on Cas’ fingers tightens to a point where I’d be worried about bending her gauntlet if my mental faculties haven’t gone offline.

Blinking back tears, I let go of Cas’ hand to accept a potion from Solas.

“Thanks,” I say, meaning it with every letter. “If you ever need a similar service, count on me.”

Elfroot takes care of the worst, reknitting bones and repairing soft tissues. I’ll have an ugly bruise come tomorrow, but that’s a small price for a working hand. Speaking of which.

“I need to take care of the rift before anyone else decides to say, ‘Hello,’ from the other side.”

Cas and Solas move aside, so I walk past them and get in range. The rift snaps closed without resistance.

“Herald,” Solas says, showing me a piece of grey fabric covered in goo. “This might be interesting for the Inquisition mages doing research on the rifts.”

I give the cloth a sceptical second glance. “You sure they’ll appreciate a dirty rag?” I certainly wouldn’t. And also, we have mages researching the rifts? Meaning, there are mages, plural, and that means more potential teachers for me.

The affront showing on Solas’ face is comical. He looks at me like I’ve just called him a Dalish templar in disguise. “These are Dreamer Rags and Wisp Essence.”

“Ah.” I pull an appropriate expression of enlightened understanding on. The names don’t tell me a thing. “How could I not recognise them? It’s so obvious now.” I snatch the fabric, carefully fold it to hold all the goo inside, and put it in my backpack next to the bloodied clothes. “Thank you, Solas. Our researchers will be beside themselves.”

To miss the heavy-handed sarcasm is impossible. Solas makes a decent go at ignoring it.

“You are quite welcome, Herald,” he says with a straight face. We stare at each other, waiting who will cave in and blink first.

“What are you doing, Varric?” Cas’ voice carries enough incredulity to tempt a priest to peek at a stripper at the end of her show. Of course, I resist.

“Exactly what it looks like: having lunch.”

“Right here?” Cas asks.

He answers her with a loud bite from a crisp apple. The aromas of food reach my nose. My stomach perks up and decides that if I don’t feed it on the spot, it will devour me instead. Solas and I break our staring contest by simultaneously turning to Varric.

“It’s as good a place as any,” Varric says from atop a fallen off head of a statue, sunken into the earth to its middle and covered in patches of old moss, about twenty feet to my left. “Andraste wouldn’t mind.”

Cas seems to be lost for words. He throws her a deliciously red fruit, and Cas catches it, glances first at the apple in her hand, then at Varric.

“There’s more where it came from,” Varric says with a wink.

* * *

After the meal, we swing by the Crossroads. The streets of the village are full with people standing around in groups, sitting on carts, leaning on crates. Templars or apostates took their possessions, so they sleep under the open sky, often relying only on the clothes on their backs to keep them warm. With their homes destroyed, these people have nowhere to return to and no place to stay. Many villagers have taken in as many refugees as they could, but space isn’t made of rubber.

I stop at a merchant’s stall and browse the merchandise. A simple staff with a round crystal top catches my attention. The dark metal of the grip has a swirling, asymmetrical design. My fingers close over the leather wrapping of the grip and cold surges through the upper half of the shaft, concentrating in the focusing crystal, emanates from it in waves. I heft the staff in one hand, turn it around, and inspect the wicked blade on its end.

“How much for this one?”

The merchant, an old man with thin, raised scars crisscrossing his face and a burn mark on the back of his left hand, squints one of his eyes. “Fifty Silvers.”

Solas scoffs, “Only if by Silvers you mean Bits.”

The merchant turns to him. “That’s a highway robbery, and we have enough of that on the roads!”

Varric points out that we have a part in making the roads safer, and the haggling commences. While they are at it, Varric arranges to sell most of our accumulated loot. I don’t know what magic he’s working on the merchant, but even my ruined pants fetch a coin.

When I step away from the stall, half an hour later and a purseful of gold richer, my backpack is lighter than it’s ever been.

“East — heads, west — tails.” I flip a Sovereign in the air. Varric catches it and flops it onto his palm. The golden dragon grins at us, coiling a long, spiked tail around its body.

Varric pockets my Sovereign. “West it is.”

* * *

The West Road lies behind a short passage through the mountain that ends with — of course — another gate. Behind it are farms and fields, gardens and orchards. And everything is aflame. Black smoke rises from every damn building. Each hut and house, as far as an eye can see, is a sacrifice on the altar of the hungriest element of nature.

I stop and stare at this meaningless destruction, a show of frustration and force. “Who the fuck would do such a tremendously stupid thing?” I shake my head. “Don’t answer that. It’s self-evident.”

Templars and apostates fight in the middle of a street.

“What shall we do?” Cas asks.

“Let’s wait them out and kill the winner.”

Backtracking to the gate, we do exactly that. In the shadow of the guarded passage, we don’t draw any attention. I lean on the wall. The cold stone is dry and rough and pokes me in the shoulder with a sharp edge.

“Everything is out to get me.” With a sigh, I change position.

A warm breeze carries an array of smells ranging from pleasant, like burning wood and thatch, to outright revolting. Battle cries mix with pained exclamations, wet sounds of steel cutting into flesh and whooshes of elemental magic hurling through the air transform into moans, groans, wheezes, taper into silence.

The fight goes on for a time, both groups getting reinforcements, but eventually, the templars win.

“Looks like it’s our cue.”

One of the templars is poking a fallen apostate with the toe of his boot. Another crouches over a woman lying face down in the dirt. The heat from the fires melted snow, and the woman’s long, unbraided hair has fallen into a muddy slush; a pool of blood has gathered under her stomach. Pulling his gauntlet off, the templar checks her pulse.

“This bitch’s alive,” he says, glancing at his comrade over his shoulder. “Wanna go first or should I?”

“Go ahead,” the first templar says, plunging his sword into another barely alive apostate. “I like them feisty.”

The second templar tugs the woman’s robe up. She gives a weak moan. And that’s as far as he gets. A click of a release mechanism, and the end of a bolt springs from the templar’s visor at the same time as a sheet of ice encases his body. He topples to the side. A most satisfying kill, I must admit.

“Wha—?” The first templar turns, but a Fade fist crushes his chest plate, bending it inward, and the rest of his question dies in a gurgle. A sharp, pungent smell punches my olfactory system with a dead-blow hammer, and I cringe. I hate the consequences of violent deaths.

All in all, it all takes less than two minutes. Still, the commotion hasn’t been as quiet as I hoped. It has attracted the attention of the rest of the templars. Three more tin cans rush from the corner of a miraculously not burning building, torches in their hands. Another four appear from the nearby hill. Their armour clangs especially loudly as they run. I turn. They are coming from a camp set next to a large boulder, the blue light of glyphs dying on the rocks.

“Well,” I say, getting my new staff in a position to blast them to hell. “A little more stealth next time?”

Cas makes a derisive noise and raises her shield. The first attacker to sprint to us tangles with her in a dance of steel. Before we disperse, Solas throws a barrier over our group. I follow suit, strengthening it with my own.

Varric executes a leaping shot — for such a heavy and densely built person he sure has agility in spades — and takes a higher ground.

“To the death!” I freeze a templar solid. A stone fist shatters him into icicles. The loss of a nice set of armour is unfortunate, but I love this combo too much to pass up. It makes getting rid of the bodies easier.

“Incoming!” Cas shouts, and indeed, another wave of enemies crashes against our defences. These are tougher: even with my limited exposure to sword fighting, I can tell that they are better trained. Have finer equipment, too. The light dies on their matte black shields. A red emblem adorns dark uniform armour of my two opponents. I send a chain lightning through them. The metal is an excellent conductor no matter the colour.

“I don’t believe they are simply bandits.” Cas delivers a brutal shield slam to a probably not-bandit, who staggers and loses his footing. Cas lunges forward, getting under the not-bandit’s shield and cuts his hamstring. He goes down, leaving a perfect opening. Cas spins, her sword swishes, lightning fast. The not-bandit’s head lolls back, bright red blood spurting from his throat.

Efficient and ruthless. I so like her style.

“So now we have a band of outlaws to add to the rogue templars, the apostate mages, and hoards of demons?” Varric pauses, shoots five consecutive bolt, surveys the resulting pincushion with a thoughtful expression on his face, and tops it off with an explosive round to the enemy’s head. “As if we haven’t had enough on our plates already.”

“When it rains, it pours?” I cast a barrier just as a man with a giant axe — overcompensating much? — attempts to cut me down. Glassy, dark brown eyes stare at me through the visor of his black helmet; his sour sweat covers a strange, sickly sweet undertone, like rotting meat coated in an inordinate amount of fragrant spices.

Pivoting on my heels, I move from the line of the incoming blow and jab the attacker in the armpit with the bladed end of my staff. Ha! Knew it’d come in handy!

The man shrugs it off like a love pat, half of his axe’s blade burrows into the earth on the impact. Have I stayed in its path, I’d be lucky to get away with only a body part missing.

Ice blasts and a dose of electricity, a blast of lightning, and still he keeps moving.

“Berserker on experimental drugs?” I mutter, advancing to the rear with haste. My mana is low. It’s a peculiar feeling, one, I’ve hopped as hell to avoid.

The demented growling coming from behind me can have only one source. And that source follows me just as quickly. Throwing dignity to the wind, I sprint to a crumbling wall. Skirting around the banking embers of what used to be someone’s house, I round up the corner, beeline to a broken cart standing next to the wall and hop onto it. Turning around, I gather enough mana for a Winter’s Grasp and don’t wait to see if the spell takes.

I figure if it does, I’ll know it by the lack of sound, and if not, I’d better put him through an obstacle course. The man’s heavy armour should slow him down while my get-up allows me to jump over fences like a mountain goat.

Fortunately, the spell works. The hyped-up not-bandit turns into an art installation. Vaulting over the wall, I keep moving. Unfortunately, I run headlong into a new batch of templars. Fresh out of mana and with no backup.

“Hullo, guys. Whatcha doin’?” My guess is that they’re looking for the source of commotion on their doorstep, as all three of them are coming out of the broken gate of a run-down… fort? The structure behind their backs is too militaristic and too small to be a castle, so I dub it a fort and call it a day.

The templars glance at each other — stupidly, if you ask me — and go for their swords. Not turning my back on them, I backpedal to the wall.

“Kill the abomination!” the tin can on the right shouts. He’s the tallest and keeps himself slightly ahead. A leader, then.

“Hey, that’s totally uncalled for!” Turning tail, I run in earnest. The stone wall is only a dozen feet away when I hear a tale-tell crack. My nice icy prison has fallen and let the convict escape.

“Oh, shit!” I rapidly slow down, which is fucking hard to do after pelting at breakneck speed. The momentum is a bitch to cancel.

A crash, then a torso in black armour appears over the wall. The rest of the man follows even as the sound of wood splintering and breaking announces the cart’s untimely demise. He jumps down from the wall, to our side. A weird tingling at the base of my neck alerts me to something nefarious going on behind my back. Someone’s pulling on the Fade energy. Without thinking, I dash to the right. My foot catches on uneven ground.

While I’m falling into the mud, the not-bandit lands with a heavy thud, hefting his axe overhead; at the same time, a wave of energy rushes past me, exactly through the place I’ve been standing at moments ago, and catches my first pursuer into the chest plate. I hit the ground. He goes still. The templars swear.

Don’t know what that shit they pulled does to a mundane, and I can’t say I’m in a hurry to find out the answer, but I’m sure as hell the result would be far worse for a mage. It sent weird ripples through the Fade, not like when someone casts nearby, but… Templars claim their abilities aren’t magical in nature? I call bullshit!

Rolling off my aching right shoulder that has taken most of the impact, I scramble to put my feet under me and spring back up. The man in black shakes his head like a wet dog, the plumage of his helmet swishes. Abruptly, he focuses on the templars, a bloody intent entering his vacant gaze. Guess he’s out to kill ‘em all, with no distinction on such trifle matters as affiliations.

Good. As long as they are occupied with each other, they cease to be my problem.

I hoof it out of here. Or at least, I try to. Two of the tin cans get tangled with the crazed berserker. The third, however, goes after me. Between climbing over the wall and skirting around it, I choose the later. Main reason? Without a convenient cart on this side, I’d spend too long pulling myself up. Though it’s about my height, it is a proper, thick wall, if stunted in growth.

A few feet before the wall ends, a chain hits my waist, coils around, tugs me back. I stumble, arms pinwheeling. The staff falls out of my hand, but I keep the footing.

“Going somewhere, bitch?” a female voice pants. That’s a surprise.

I grab the metal links, turn around, and yank the chain with all my might. It flies out of the tin can’s hands. The shock on her face will warm my heart on a bleak, cold night.

“Away from your ugly mug.” Remembering a move I saw… somewhere, I spin the chain in the air; the links clink. A quiet whoosh, and the chain’s end smacks the templar in the side of her head, twisting her helmet. On second glance, it barely holds on her head.

The woman says, “Urk,” and sinks like a breached ship — slowly, like time has turned into kissel.

I pull the chain back and coil it in loose circles around my arm, unwrap the rest of my body. The bruises on my midriff will compliment my complexion marvellously.

A pained cry and a growl get my attention next. The man in black has finished off both templars. His bulbous nose smells the air, and like a fucking bloodhound on a trail, he zeros in on me even though I make no move or sound.

He’s human. It shouldn’t be possible.

The man turns. I gather the energy for another Winter’s Grasp, the only thing I can cast thanks to the excruciatingly slow trickle of magic through my dial-up connection to the Fade. He takes one step in my direction. A spell is at my fingertips, ready to fly. The man’s knees buckle.

My eyes widen. What?

Cas braces a leg on his shoulder and pulls her sword out. Red stained steel surfaces out of his left side. Cas twists her sword in the air, sending droplets of blood raining on the corpse.

“When you run away from your troop, we cannot help,” Cas says, a scowl etched into her face. “Don’t do that again.” With a glare, she turns around and marches to the stone wall. “Varric, Solas,” she shouts, “I found her.”

Aw. A smile tugs at my lips. It’s so sweet of her to reinforce my eternal surety of her caring nature.

When Varric and Solas join us, Cas is busy ignoring me and I’m grinning like a loon.

One glance and, frowning, Solas tosses me a vial full of electric blue liquid.

“Cheers!” I drain it in a couple of gulps. A tidal wave of sizzling energy floods me, and along with mana, all my senses come alive. Everything is crystallised and intense. Colours, smells, and noises are overwhelmingly hard to bear.

Several templars are talking in the fort. A jackrabbit’s heartbeat slows as a fox rips its throat, their furs smell of musk, and fear, and wildness. Light gains a new dimension, the smallest particles of water forming transparent, sparkling mist. The soft shirt, the inside of the gloves and pants I wear feel like sandpaper.

My eyes and ears, my brain hurt. Then, as suddenly as they began, the sensations stop. Everything fades to normal.

“Whoa!” A shiver runs over my body. “That was… something. A trip, most definitely.”

“You haven’t used lyrium before?” Solas asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” The taste is familiar, but the effects were a surprise. “Not in recent memory, that’s for sure.”

He makes a thoughtful little sound and gives me three more bottles. “I found them on the apostates,” Solas says as a way of explanation. Ah, ’tis my share of the loot.

“Thanks. We need to check out that fort.” I point in the relevant direction. “Templars have a camp there.”

Cas perks up at this information. Her posture shifts, nostrils flare — a bloodhound on a trail. “How many of them?”

I listen. The murmur of voices barely rises above a whisper. “At least, five.”

Varric’s pupils dilate, but his expression remains unchanged.

Cas nods. “As soon as you are ready.”

“Oh, I’m ready, all right.” I leer at her. To keep her on her toes, of course. In truth, I feel like I can take down the entire Templar Order. Single-handedly. It’s a deceptive sensation, which I choose to ignore, but it’s here all the same.

Cas huffs, a short humorous sound, and walks to the fallen-in gate. Judging by the state of the fort, it must have been under siege, and not recently. Perhaps, it happened during the last Blight. Crumbling, half-destroyed walls surround a tall building. The massive wooden door doesn't creak as I ease it open.

Once inside, we keep to the shadows, avoiding pools of light under the numerous holes in the roof. Signs of decay and disrepair mark the whole place. Open to elements bricks have gotten mouldy. A bird chirps and flies out of a nest perched on a beam, the beating of wings sudden and fast.

Cas signals for a stop. Sidestepping a pile of animal droppings, I grimace in disgust — unsanitary. The squatters should have cleaned it up — and freeze, hugging a wall.

Our targets sit on dirty pallets at the far side of a cavernous room deep in the fort. This side of it isn’t too bad — secluded and dry, windowless, more or less habitable if you are into caves and hermitism. Torchlight colours everything with warm hues, but something red — cold, sick, dangerous — gleams along the far end.

The templars, oblivious to their impending doom, talk about apostate hunting like it’s a fucking sport.

“How many did you score today, Neal?” one asks.

“Three.” A glob of saliva slaps the floor. “None lasted long after a Smite.”

“Not bad,” a different, feminine voice says. “Ser Robert, Ser Tamra, and I got five, though,” it continues. “They’ve locked themselves up all nice and tight in a peasant house. Thought to be safe, Maker’s spit!” The speaker’s laugh is surprisingly pleasant: a bubbly, joyous sound that invites to join in on the fun. The templars all do. “We’ve torched the place. Burned like a haystack,” the speaker continues with a chuckle. She smacks her lips. “Beautiful.”

“Serves them right,” the first man says with apparent pleasure, “filthy abominations!”

Bianca whispers. The air grows cold and charged as Solas and I channel mana into spells. Cas bellows a war cry and rushes at the templars. They don’t stand a chance.

Out of seven people, only three live past the first two minutes of the battle, and even then, not for long.

My body count grows like a batter with yeast left to sit near an oven. I do not care.

“Red lyrium.” Solas stands before the crystalline outgrowth that caught my attention earlier. “It shouldn’t be here.”

“No shit,” Varric says. Coming through his clenched jaw, his words sound clipped.

“How do we destroy it?” That’s Cas’ voice.

I look up from my perusal of scrolls left on a three-legged table. “With fire.” ‘Obviously’ hangs in the air. “Smash it to bits and insensate nine ways to the Void and back. Nothing survives fire.”

“Aside from fire-breathing dragons, drakes, and dragonlings, some wyverns, and, of course, rage demons,” Solas says with a wry smile.

I lean forward. “There are dragons?”

Solas regards me with a look typically reserved for a village idiot. “It is the Dragon Age.”

“Huh. Didn’t think of that.”

Varric picks up a sword and hits the red outgrowth. Cracks run over its surface. He hits it again and again, hatred powering his blows, until there is nothing but faintly glowing debris littering the filthy floor. The sword clangs as Varric throws it aside. Planting a fire mine, he walks away from the lyrium, grim satisfaction written on his features.

Cas piles up the bodies nearby. I gather the scrolls and shove them into my backpack. If nothing interesting crops up, well, you never know when you’ll need kindling.

With one last glance across the room, we all move to the entrance. The first fireball sets off the explosion and the whole building trembles. Solas adds Immolate, igniting the corpses. Everything — pallets, a couple of chairs, the lone table — catches on fire. The lyrium melts. I start breathing through my mouth. We cast another round of fire spells. The temperature climbs higher. Flames lick the brick walls, heat up the area so much, it’s unbearable to stand here in winter gear.

I cast the third fireball. Sparks fly, a sick, foul stench overlaps all else, and finally, the lyrium burns.

“Cassandra here is a famous dragon slayer,” Varric says. Reflected flames dance in his eyes, the lighting paints his complexion red-orange. “Didn’t you know?”

Obviously, I didn’t. My Paragon of Badassery just got ten times cooler. “Do tell!”

“Oh, Seeker is a renowned hero,” Varric says as we file out of the fort at full throttle. “She saved the previous Divine from an assassination attempt by crashing one dragon into another.”

The air outside, smoky and with the persistent tang of fried meat, tastes sweeter than nectar. I gulp it in lungfuls and turn to Cas. “Really?”

“Don’t listen to him.” A flush creeps up her face, Cas shakes her head. “That is not how it happened.”

“Come now,” Varric says. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “This story is already ostentatiously valiant and daring and has dragons — plural — in it. Why would I embellish anything?”

“I have no notion of why you do anything,” Cas says evenly. “I was one among many who worked together to save Divine Beatrix. The dragons were a threat. That is all.” She glances at each of us in turn, her face serious. “This matter is closed.” With that, Cas walks through the gateway, the rotten wood groaning under her boots.

“But you flew on a dragon, right?” I ask her retreating back.

Not slowing, Cas says over her shoulder, “Closed, Herald.”

“And that is that.” I sigh and trudge after her, imagining huge, majestic beasts that can take me to the sky. How wonderful it would be to soar above the clouds, wild, and free, and—

Varric’s voice returns me to the slush underfoot. “She absolutely did,” he says, and I hear the smirk in his tone.

The distraction is over. Wrestling my mind back on track, I keep my eyes peeled.

“Varric,” Solas says, apparently deciding differently, “by the end of Hard in Hightown, almost every character is revealed as a spy or a traitor.”

“Wait, you read my book?” Varric says, sounding genuinely surprised.

“It was in the Inquisition library. Everyone but Donnen turned out to be in disguise. Is that common?”

“We have a library?” I butt in. “Oh, what am I saying, of course, we do. Along with the researchers. Why nobody tells me this stuff?” I huff. “And, Solas.” I turn and glare at the elf, who’s been walking right behind me.

“Yes?”

“Damn you, Solas! Spoilers!”

The corners of his mouth turn down. “I am truly sorry, Herald,” he says, and for once, I believe him.

Varric clears his throat, and Solas focuses on him. “Are we talking about books or are you asking if everyone I know is a secret agent?”

“Are there many tricksters in dwarven literature?” Solas wonders.

“A handful, but they're the exception. Mostly they're just honouring the ancestors. It's very dull stuff. Human literature? Now there's where you'll find the tricky, clever, really deceptive types.”

Solas tilts his head. “Curious.”

“Not really. Dwarves write how they want things to be. Humans write to figure out how things are.”

Cas slows down. “Are you going to write a book, Varric?”

“You will need to be more specific, Seeker. I’m a storyteller, and writing books is what I do.”

She makes a frustrated little huff and stops long enough to direct at him a withering glare. “I meant about us. The Inquisition.”

“Wasn’t planning to, no,” Varric lies without an ounce of remorse.

I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Cas ask, raising her eyebrows.

“Ah, nothing.” I snort and catch Varric’s eyes. He smirks. “Just thought of a dirty joke.” I add a suggestive note to my tone. “I can tell you if you wish?”

“No need.” Cas picks up speed, and we march on, leaving behind the burning houses that have become the funeral pyres of mages and templars alike.

The road takes us through several templar camps. We fight, win, search the bodies, and arrange funerals, which is the most arduous process of all the rest put together. The time goes by.

In the early evening, as the daylight wanes and clouds envelop the sky, Cas suggests a stop. I sit near a broken bridge, listening to river water rushing past and a distant roaring of a waterfall, and munch on a piece of stale bread and a strip of dried meat. They taste like dust.

“This letter says that templars gather ‘off the West Road.’ I propose that we search the riverbanks first,” Cas says, a frown lies between her brows. At this rate, it really will take a miracle on par with the healing properties of Andraste’s ashes for Cas to avoid premature wrinkles.

“Gimme, gimme!” I make grubby hands, and Cas shows me the scroll. I skim over the content. Written in a crisp script of a clearly educated person, the letter spews incredible bigotry and hatred. I don’t even try to hold back a grimace. “So it’s the common people’s duty to supply templars for their worthy cause of slaughtering every mage they can find. What a load of bullshit!”

Varric snort. “I especially like how he — or she, though it’s less likely — brands decent people as sympathisers that lain with demons and can only breed abominations.”

“It is not uncommon among fanatical groups to be without reason.” Solas says it like it explains everything and we shouldn’t be surprised or repulsed by the depth of a cesspool a person can dive in. I guess he saw such things in the Fade, so it no longer disturbs him so much.

“Too true.” Varric nods. “Doesn’t make it any less screwed up.”

“Completely fucking bonkers is what it is.” I put the last piece of my meal into my mouth and chew it with fervour. The low hanging sun peeks between a fluffy bunny and a beehive. Far on the horizon, the Breach looms like a warning. Hurry up, do your thing before I open again and make your life hell, it says. The bread sticks in my throat. I cough, pound at my sternum, and croak, “R-right. Ahem. Break’s over. Let’s kick more ass.”

We move on up the left side of the riverbank. Five minutes later I catch a murmur of voices, and a short while after, a tent peaks over naked arms of scraggly bushes. Upon closer inspection, the hill up ahead bristles with rather shoddy palisades.

“Looks like we’ve hit a Jackpot,” I whisper, crouching. Not sure it will help all that much unless I saw off my horns, but at least, I made an effort. The others, excepting Varric, follow my example. “Plough ahead or sneak around?”

“They have a good defensive position. We cannot attack from either side. This” — Cas waves at the rock formation to our left and the bluff on our right — “leaves us no other choice but to face them head-on.”

“Excellent plan, Seeker.” Varric mimes applauding and tips his head to Cas. “Let’s rush at the barricades and get pincushioned like nugs for First Day.”

Cas’ lips tighten. “What do you suggest, dwarf?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Pretending to think, Varric glances at the river. “How about we use a rogue to set a few traps and shoot a couple of bolt in the templars’ backs instead?” he says, returning his gaze to Cas. A blush creeps all the way down to her neck.

“A most sensible suggestion,” Solas says. His eyes are dancing with mirth and a smile lurks at the corners of his mouth as he looks from one of my friends to another. “I’m willing to contribute two Confusion Grenades to the noble cause of creating havoc.”

Solas being a sly little shit? Aw, so sweet! Grenades, though? I want them, too.

“You are so devious,” I purr, staring at him with a faux besotted expression. “Will you teach me the recipe step by step?”

Curiously, Solas takes it in stride. Smirking, he treats me with a sideways look and says, “I might.”

Eh? Oh, I get it. Two can play the same game and blah-blah-blah.

“All righty-o, then.” I grin, allowing my impish side to take over my better judgement. The way my life’s been going recently, I crave entertainment, and I’ll get it even if I have to carve it out of this shitpool of a day myself. “Now, Varric, before you go into the enemy territory, we simply must wish you luck.” I pause and smile with all my teeth. “Right?”

Doubt shadows Cas’ face, but she assents while Varric and Solas wait to see where I’m going with it.

“Excellent!” I clap my hands, careful to do it without a sound. “A good luck kiss should do.” I look at her with expectation.

“A— no.” Cas stiffens and shakes her head, her short hair whipping about her face. “I do not believe it appropriate.”

“Oh, come on! It’s traditional.”

My pout has zero effect on her. Varric, however, follows this turn of events with avid curiosity.

“No!” Cas says. “And what do you mean by traditional? Did you do it in your mercenary band?”

A what now?

“Sure,” I say, not missing a beat. “We actually had a good luck shag, but I figured we don’t have the time for it now.” I shrug to show that it’s no big deal. “When we go for the bigger baddies, on the other hand, is a different matter. I’d like to get a shag out of it with someone” — I leer at all of them in turns — “before the next big showdown.”

A look of dawning comprehension passes over Cas, as if my words explain so much of my behaviour. She confirms it, saying, “That is a… peculiar tradition.”

“It worked so far,” I say brightly. “Now, be a good spot and smooch our manly dwarf. It’s for the greater good!”

“Be that as it may, my answer is still no.” Cas’ heated gaze promises retribution if I don’t drop the subject. I skillfully ignore it.

“One little peck and his chances of success will increase tenfold. I guaranty it,” I say, adopting my best approximation of a salesman. It doesn’t fly.

“Why do you not do it yourself?”

“I’ll be happy to!” Cas opens her mouth, and I add, “After you.”

“Sorry, Shiny, but you aren’t exactly my type,” Varric says. And Cas is? His tone of voice is even somewhat apologetical. Well, it’s not news. I figured he isn’t into me early on, mainly because he’s been acting like a bro and, as far as I know, hasn’t glanced at my assets once — but appearances must be kept. My face falls.

“Oh.” I infuse a hearty dose of sadness into that little sound and turn to Cas. “You see, to my everlasting heartbreak, not everyone is into awesome, sexy devils — I mean, Vashoths.” Pulling a wounded expression out of the ether, I affix it to my pretty mug. It fits perfectly. “And as far as I know, Varric doesn’t swing the other way. Do you?” 

Varric shakes his head. More’s the pity. I shrug and say to Cas, “Though, if I were him, I’d make an exception for Solas — he’s such a sly fox!” I sigh — dreamily — and clear my throat. “So simple math leaves you as the only viable option.” A dejected sigh. “Besides, if I don’t get to lock lips with either of you, I deserve to at least watch someone else doing it. A consolation prize, if you please.” Time for the puppy eyes because, teasing aside, I really do want to see that show. “Pretty please?”

“Herald,” Cas says, and her voice lowers perilously close to a growl. “I do not think that Varric will appreciate it if I follow through on your proposal.”

“Why, Seeker,” Varric says, mirth suffusing his entire being. “I would never say no to your womanly charms.”

Cas’ face reddens even further, and she throws up her hands. “Urgh!”

Now, all this happens while we hunker down behind a bush and in voices barely rising above a whisper.

“I hate to interrupt this, ah, enlightening conversation,” Solas says at full volume, “but it appears that the point is moot as we have been spotted.”

A group of templars stares at us from behind a palisade, what’s visible of their faces through the visors of their helmets showing a peculiar mix of fascinated and dumbfounded.

“Damn.” Straightening, I pull my staff into position and cast a barrier. “Anyone can paint my horns to look like twigs?”

No one volunteers, choosing instead to go on the offensive. I don’t take it personally, seeing as the templars do, indeed, have archers along with the higher ground. Of course, we have the advantage of skill and awesomeness on our side.

The first arrows fly only to bounce off my barrier, and a trio of tin cans rush down the hill, screaming like crazy baboons. One of them gets hit in the back. Yes, they are that competent.

“I see they hand out acceptance into the Templar Order like candies on a kiddies’ party. So anyone can join?”

“Thinking of a career change, Shiny?” Bianca fires and an archer’s head explodes in a shower of gore. “I don’t recommend it. They won’t be able to find anything in your size in their armoury.”

“Hardy-har-har. You are a true friend, Varric, to care about me so.”

“What he means to say,” Cas explains as she walks to meet the melee fighter, angling her shield up to fend off the arrows, “is that the Order accepts only humans. It’s a part of the doctrine.”

“Figures.” I wonder why am I not surprised? “If your life’s ambition is to be a bigoted fucker, be all in or get out, amirite?”

Solas brings more tin cans down. New ones rush out of the camp.

“It is in people’s nature to be wary of those who are different,” he says, erecting a barrier to replace mine. “The Order simply helps to bring it to the extreme. I’m surprised they allow women into their ranks.”

“Why?” I see his point, but— “Andrastian religion was founded by a woman.”

Solas pauses to smash a templar with a transparent Fade fist. “It just seems in line with their other restrictions.”

I can’t see Cas’ expression, but judging by her ferocious swings at our unfortunate foes, for her, this topic is a frustrating one. Blood spills onto the earth. Heads roll. Other body parts get separated. The templars keep on coming.

Not all of them are prime examples of limited intelligence. Some tin cans show that they didn’t eat their bread for nothing while in training and dispel our barriers. The first time it happens, I’m completely unprepared for it. One moment, a freshly cast barrier gives me a sense of security. A blink, and it’s gone, and only a feeling of skin scraped raw is left to remember it by. I shudder and recast the spell.

Gradually, we move through the encampment. The templars chose a good spot: out of the way, with access to water, and easily defensible if you have more than two brain cells. But since they are clearly just a bunch of thugs, we use their rudimentary fortifications to our advantage, hiding behind stacked crates to avoid Holy Smites, as Cas calls them.

The placement of palisades doesn’t allow more than two people to go through at a time. Cas choke holds the passages, and we, the range fighters, pick out whoever waits in line for her blade.

It’s not a hard fight and not an easy one, either. Death should never be easy. Not when you deal it, anyway. It goes on as fights do — forever and in a blink of an eye. And when the last templar falls, pierced with so many bolts his body hovers above the ground, the evening has come in full.

We gather everything of value, then do the usual post-battle clean-up. As hungry flames consume the corpses, I wipe my forehead and look around. The sky has darkened considerably, and the first stars have come out to shine.

Cas follows my gaze. “Nightfall is fast approaching. We should find a place to settle down soon.” Cas does not slouch exactly — I think she’ll rather die than lose her perfect posture — but her shoulders slump the tiniest amount, and with the way she leans on a crate, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s at the end of her rope. I can relate. Running around with a heavy backpack all day long is hard by itself, and when you add a vigorous activity or two…

“We won’t be able to make it back to the Crossroads,” Cas finishes her thought.

Something on the pyre pops, and I wince. Don’t breathe through the nose. Don’t breathe. Don’t fucking breathe at all, runs through my mind on repeat.

“Herald?” Cas prompts when the silence drags on for too long.

“I hear you.” Most of the camp survived the fight intact, and it’s a damn fine defensible position, but—

“The veil is thin here,” Solas says, stealing the words from my mouth.

I nod. “And other rogue templars might come. Who knows how widely they’ve spread and how popular are those vile pamphlets with directions. If we stay, we’ll need to double the watch.”

Varric volunteers to go first. “This camp gives me creeps,” he says.

“I will keep you company,” Solas offers. It settles the matter, and we wander around and set our things down. We used the largest fire pit to burn the dead, and in quiet agreement, we settle down closer to the end of the encampment, where the stench is milder.

Even though plenty of tents stand ready for use, nobody as much as looks their way or erects their own. Without time or energy to hunt, the meal once again consists of dry rations. No one seems to care.

Feeling dirty and actually being grimy, I put my bedroll on the warm earth next to the fire and burrow inside until I resemble a giant horned caterpillar. “Night,” I whisper and close my eyes.

The sleep swallows me whole like a deep, black sea. And all night long I’m besieged with nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the timeline of the game, so in this 'verse the conclave happened on Firstfall 28, 9:40. Also, the travel time from Haven to Hinterlands is now one week instead of two. This way, Adaar'll close the Breach in early Guardian, when there will still be a sufficient amount of snow around Haven to potentially freeze in.  
> Next chapter — and more Hinterlands — should be ready sometime in December.  
> So what do you think of this fic and the MC so far?


	5. Hinterlands

In the morning, we march to the Crossroads flaunting red eyes and gloomy faces. The weather cooperates, reflecting the mood: weak morning light barely illuminates the broken bridge.

The burning huts near the West Gate are nothing more than hollowed out frames — bleached bones of lives and livelihoods. The barns have been emptied and destroyed, the fields trampled and showered with blood.

A sleepy-eyed young man, the son of the talkative merchant, takes our loot with minimum haggling, and we move on.

The previous day proves to be typical to our stay in the Hinterlands. From dusk till down, we scour the area for apostate caches, haul them to the village, and fight everyone who’s out to kill us. As if people and demons aren’t enough, nature decides to contribute: a pack of great bears wants nothing more than a taste of my flesh. We kill them, too.

Along the way, I close rifts and stumble on a large group of apostates while hunting a ram. The latter goes like this:

“Why is there so many hills? I thought the Hinterlands would be endless plains.” My breath comes out in short pants, thanks to all the running after the damned animal. For some inexplicable reason, it doesn’t want to feed the hungry bellies of the refugees. “Come back here, you, walking kebab!”

My lightning hits stone as the ram disappears behind a boulder. Varric laughs. Don’t know what’s so funny — his bolts aren’t any more accurate, though that might be because he has fallen behind. Cursing, I speed up. My legs cover the distance in a matter of seconds.

I round the boulder and shoot another lightning bolt at the ram. “Aha! Fair and square!” I shout over my shoulder. “That’s five to your three, Varric!”

Didn’t I mention that we have an ongoing competition?

“We are under attack!” a shrill, unfamiliar voice replies, and I turn just in time to get a close-up on an incoming fireball and think, _Oh, shi—!_

A short, dense body tackles me from behind. The fireball sails overhead. Instead of flames, I get a mouthful of mud.

Varric rolls off me and climbs to his feet with surprising agility.

“Thanks, man.” I hastily erect a barrier over us. The next hostile spells dissolve into nothingness. “Nice of you to pull my ass out of the fire—”

Bianca jumps into position. Bolt after bolt hits the space in front of the apostate, wearing out his defence. I aim farther, at a mage casting something complicated. My lightning breaks his concentration but does no visible harm. Damn.

“—but that’s not how I expected us to get horizontal.”

Varric snorts, reloading his crossbow. “You wish.”

“I know, right? You’re near irresistible!” I say with a wink.

“Kill the warrior!” another voice shouts, and wow, I’ve almost missed Cas’ arrival.

She rushes at the two apostates crawling out of a tent. They don’t stand — _ha!_ — a chance. A surge of the same power as the templars used dispels their barriers. I feel it in the ripples it causes in the Fade, a strange and uncomfortable sensation, but one I’m willing to tolerate as long as it works in our favour. And then, well, cold steel trumps zero close combat training, hands down.

As the first apostate’s barrier gets down under Solas’ and Varric’s combined efforts, Cas steps in to help me deal with the last one. She runs to him. I try to keep him occupied with ice and lightning, but even a deaf nug would hear her approach. The noise all the metal she wears makes it bloody impossible to miss.

At the last moment, when the collision is inevitable, the apostate shatters into black, misty shards. My jaw drops open. Poof, and he is twenty feet to the left, standing on a rock and firing curses. Just like that.

I blink. “Why does he can teleport and I can’t? This is grossly unfair!” I need to find someone to teach me this stuff. And while we are at it, someone to coach me in that fucking blanket spell before we return high into the mountains.

A living nightmare derails that train of thought as images of unspeakable horrors rise before my eyes. Everyone I know — my current companions, Inquisition soldiers whose faces I vaguely recall, and even Mother Giselle — die in horrific ways while I stand helpless, crippling fear encasing my limbs in lead.

Cas’ face melts on contact with acid. Varric’s heart explodes inside his chest; the force of it blows his ribcage outwards. A great brown bear feasts on Harding’s entails. Her midsection is a torn, bloody mess. She moans as a sharp claw tags at her intestines. By all rights, she should be already dead.

It goes on and on, and then it ends. The thundering of my pulse blocks the clamour of the fight. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I’d kill for a glass of good brandy. Swallowing, I shake my head and join the rest of the team at taking down the apostate.

The fucker is strong — magic-wise — and slippery like a greased eel. As soon as his barrier is down, he teleports. Same with when Cas gets near. It takes two simultaneous Winter's Grasps and a volley of bolts to slow him down, and then, Cas bashes him in the chest. His body shatters into meaty icicles, just like so many living beings before him. It’s almost anticlimactic.

Cas stands over the shards and slowly lowers her shield. Her eyes are wild, her pupils wide-blown. She takes several hard breaths and says, “It is done.”

Leaning on my staff, I limp to a cluster of plants near the rock Solas wound up on and pick up a few.

“Here,” I say, putting an elfroot into his left hand. His fingers close over the stem, and I nod. “A weed for you.”

“What is it for?” Solas says. His tone doesn’t have an inflexion.

I raise my eyebrows. “Isn’t it obvious? To get high.”

He smiles, and the reflection of my own terror fades from his gaze at last.

* * *

Up on the sloping side of a mountain, we find a metal sphere sitting on a pedestal — an astrarium, as Solas calls it. I look inside the protruding binoculars.

“It shows stars, I think.” I’ve no idea which ones. The whole damn night sky is a map of a foreign country written in an archaic version of its native language.

“Maybe I could try?” Solas says, and we swap places.

He hums, twists the knobs at the base of the sphere. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“It is the constellation Judex, the Sword of Mercy in common parlance.” Solas fiddles with the knobs some more, and a beam of light shoot out of the sphere, pointing toward the hills to the west. “Ah,” he says, “I see the rumours were true.” Solas turns from the podium, his eyes alight with interest. “I’ve heard that astrariums can lead to hidden caches left by Tevere cult in the pre-Andrasian times. Perhaps, we should investigate. There might be something useful for the Inquisition.”

Varric applauds. “I’m impressed, Chuckles. That’s the most convoluted way of saying ‘I want to go on a treasure hunt’ I’ve ever heard.”

Solas inclines his head. “One reason doesn’t necessary eliminates the other.”

“Another ram!” Cas says, pointing at the animal trotting along the trail leading up.

“This one isn’t getting away either.” Grinning, I unsling my staff from its harness and holler, “Tally-ho!”

And the chase begins.

Only, after the apostates’ mishap, I should have known it isn’t going to be simple. _This_ stupid animal leads us straight to a pack of feral mabaris. Their leader, a stout, pissed-off hound, rips the ram’s throat like a wet tissue. Growling in a laudable approximation of Cas, he swings his bloody muzzle in our direction, eight more dogs forming a semicircle around him.

 _“Fuck my luck.”_ I’d facepalm were I not so busy casting a barrier.

The dogs attack.

Solas and Varric instantly take the higher ground, leaving Cas and me on the front line. Of course, she is a natural at it, being a war goddess and all. I — not so much, but dogs are easy. I fend them off with fire and lightning while Cas does her best to keep them off my precious self. It goes well enough.

Barking, whining, and the smells of singed fur and fresh blood fill the area. What’s left of the pack backs away. I follow, and in no time at all, I’m fighting deep inside a cave, firing blind while my eyes adjust to the change in lighting.

Suddenly, the three remaining dogs stop their retreat and turn on us with a renewed ferocity.

_These smart fuckers led us here on purpose!_

Going by the sounds, Cas falls back to the entrance, drawing two mabaris with her. And that leaves me alone in the dark with the last dog.

Snarling, the hound — he or maybe she, it’s impossible to tell right now, and besides, _I don’t fucking care!_ — lunges and bites into my arm. The leather of my coat is sturdy, but not _that_ good. Though it doesn’t rip, the teeth dig into my flesh and hold it like a vice.

Obviously, I scream. Who besides Cas wouldn’t? But in a more productive venue, I also hit the dog across the head with the blunt end of my staff. Repeatedly. Instead of letting go, the dog’s jaw tightens, grinding my bones against each other.

Suffering various agonising sensations, I pray that the mark works unattached to a living being.

I can’t cast because it’s fucking impossible to concentrate when someone is chewing you. Otherwise, I’d blast the hound’s brain out. The staff’s next to useless in such close quarters. I release it, and it clatters on the floor. Kneeing the dog in the stomach, I dig into my pocket for a folding knife, and… Bingo!

I finger a button. The blade springs out. Small, thin, and overall unimpressive, it does a marvellous job when I stab it into the hound’s neck, burying it in coarse fur to the hilt. With a strength borne of desperation, I cut through his — or her — neck. The vice around my arm slackens.

Strangling a groan, I pull the dog’s jaw open and push its owner away. The dog slumps next to my staff and doesn’t move.

“Herald,” Cas calls. Her voice and footsteps echo, reverberating off the stone. A fast approaching circle of torchlight illuminates the mushrooms growing along cave walls. Some of them, I notice with detached interest, emit a bluish fluorescent glow.

“In here.” I sink onto a chest. A healing potion goes a long way in repairing my mangled arm. “You know,” I say as Cas appears, carrying her sword in one hand and a torch in the other, bloodstains darkening her armour, “you are the angel of vengeance.” I ride out a wave of pain and sigh. “We should invent painkillers.”

A complicated parade of emotions march across her face, leaving a frown behind. “There is an old corpse under your left boot. Perhaps, you should remove it from its head.”

I glance down and, indeed, here it is — a pile of humanoid bones and uneaten meat in an advanced stage of decomposition. Nice. I _feel_ my face turning green. “I thought it was a rock. Explains the smell, though.”

Getting up, I stumble-run out of the cave as fast as my feet can move and breathe until nausea abates.

Throwing concerned glances my way, Solas and Varric walk past.

“You know, not every dwarf likes caves.” Varric peers into the dark. “I’ll wait here, where it’s light and sunny.”

“I thought dwarves have exemplary night vision?” Solas’ tone frames the words into a question.

“That’s what the traditionalists want you to believe.” Crossing his arms, Varric leans on the wall beside me. His shoulder touches my hip. “It’s better than human or elven,” he continues, “but if a dwarf tells you he can see in complete darkness, call the bullshit.”

Solas makes a noncommittal sound. “I should go help Cassandra with her search,” he says a moment later.

“Mm, while you’re at it, pick some mushrooms, will ya?” I swallow. “My guess is they’re poisonous, but that might come in handy. I’m not going back into this stink-hole.”

Giving me a sympathetic look, Solas nods. “Of course, Herald.”

I summon a tired smile and thank him, then close my eyes and let myself rest, listening to a howling wind bending tree crowns somewhere far above. The warmth of Varric’s shoulder provides a reassuring point of contact, tethering me to reality.

After a while, the dual footsteps of our companions become louder and closer.

“There’s a lot of drakestone,” Cas’ voice says. “I also found a letter that points to a likely location of a lyrium deposit.”

“Please, mark them on the map.”

“Already done, Herald.”

I open my eyes. Cas regards me in silence. Her face has a new scratch I haven’t noticed in the dark. “Do you need a potion?” she asks, glancing at the dents in my coat sleeve. They retain canine dental impression.

“What I need are a bath and a stiff drink,” I say decisively. “You, on the other hand, need to take care of that” — I gesture at the scratch on her cheek — “before it gets infected.”

A movement to my right, and Varric offers me a metal flask he pulled from somewhere.

“Strong?” I ask, unscrewing the cap.

He nods. “Enough to knock your boots off.”

Varric is right: the smell alone carries a punch that can make a weaker person roaring drunk. “That will do.” I pull a swig. The eye-watering liquor, bitter as a wrath of a spurned lover, burns all the way down and ignites a hellfire in my belly. Tequila has nothing on it. An involuntary shudder runs over my body. “ _Nice._ ”

I offer it to Cas, and she takes a sip. Her features freeze. She swallows the drink with a visible effort. “What _is_ this?”

“The finest moonshine from the Hanged Man. Only the best for the Inquisition,” Varric says with a straight face; only his eyes are laughing.

“Tastes like rocket propellant,” I add, taking the flask back and making another go at it. Nah, still disgusting. Rummaging through my pockets, I unearth a dainty, blue handkerchief I didn’t know I have and splash it with the liquor.

“Hey,” Varric protests, “that shit is hard to get!”

“First chance I get” — I dab Cas’ scratch with the wet part of the silk. She hisses through her teeth — “I’m buying you Chasind Sack Mead. You need to develop a better taste in moonshine.”

* * *

Everywhere we go, I see two constants: signs of refugees’ habitation and Avvar heritage. Сamps and fires, pallets with shabby tables or chests near them are a common sight. Often, they are abandoned or momentarily unoccupied while their owners are hunting. Sometimes, we find dead bodies.

Not far from the cave, a group of young men — thankfully, alive — huddles around a fire. They follow us with apathetic eyes, unbothered by our presence when we walk by.

“Too many refugees around here. Reminds me of Kirkwall during the Blight,” Varric mutters.

“And look — a fugly statue.” I point at a weathered, androgynous figure chiselled out of a porous stone. Its prominent ribs and riddled with holes upturned face make identifying its gender close to impossible. “You must feel right at home.”

Varric spares a look at the ancient eyesore. “I can’t decide if it’s better or worse. At least, the Twins have a practical purpose.”

* * *

Consulting the map, we travel downhill to the next rift. It sits practically on top of a house, demons roaming the fenced garden like overlarge pests. As we draw near, a plum tree moves, and I don’t mean its branches in the wind. It pulls out its roots and shuffles about the wicket.

“I don’t suppose this is a normal tree behaviour around these parts?”

“No, Shiny,” Varric says as the tree swats at the latch keeping the wicket closed. “Orchards don’t usually take leisure walks.”

“I’ve heard of sylvans.” Cas frowns and goes for her sword. “It’s dangerous.”

“Not necessarily, Seeker,” Solas disagrees. “A friendly spirit can occupy a host as easily as a demon. It might not attack unless provoked.”

As if it hears him, the tree quiets down, ceasing all motion and just standing there, darkening the door. For a sylvan, it’s woefully unimpressive: its scrawny branches, lowered like stooped shoulders, don’t quite reach my height. Beside a bunch of shades and wraiths, it’s about as scary as a purring kitten.

“All right, let’s save the tree for last,” I decide aloud and send a fireball at the first shade to wander through the fence. The fire draws its attention, along with that of its brethren, and the demons glide to me as if magnetised.

A barrier, another fireball, a chain lightning. Cas covers my back when Rage is offended at being electrocuted and wants to take it out of my hide. The fight goes on, all pretty standard, with no surprises or heavy damage on our side.

I snap the rift, imaging myself a seamstress of reality, and notice the tree still standing, and standing still. Throughout the confrontation, it stayed put, from crown to root looking kind of droopy.

“I believe it’s safe to assume that this sylvan isn’t possessed by a demon,” Solas says. He walks to it, keeping his hands up in a placating gesture. “Andaran atish’an, falon. We mean you no harm.”

The tree does nothing but manages to convey attentiveness. I glance at Varric. He shrugs and makes a face that says, ‘How the hell should I know?’ without actual words. Yeah, I don’t know how the tree does it, either. Through its aura? Something in the air, maybe? Whatever the case, Solas nods as if in silent communication. He reaches for the wicket’s lock.

“Don’t—”

The latch slides free.

“—do that,” Cas finishes, her voice bordering on resignation.

The tree shuffles forward, and Solas freezes. The tree does, too. A moment passes, then another. A fly zips by. Solas extends his right hand like he expects a handshake, his staff temporary migrating into his left.

“So,” Varric drawls. “This is the perfect time for it to suddenly attack you, Chuckles. I wouldn’t be surprised if it has been luring you into a false sense of security.”

Without actually moving, the tree shrinks in on itself.

I cluck my tongue. “I think you hurt its feelings.”

“Herald!” Cas exclaims. Her fingers graze my shoulder as she tries to stop me, but I ignore her in favour of walking.

“You aren’t, are you?” I say to the tree. My voice carries a confidence I don't feel. Not taking my eyes off the branches and with Winter’s Grasp ready to go at a moment’s notice, I edge past Solas, cross the gateway, and stop, staring at the sylvan. “You are a good spirit. With an absolutely fine host and no reason to be angry.”

The tree kind of nods, bending its crown forward. I could have mistaken the motion for the play of wind if, you know, there were any. The weather is calm, tranquil even. Wherever a rift opens, everything dies down, and this place is no exception.

My eyes are starting to hurt, but I refuse to blink. “Excellent. I’d hate to be disappointed.” I turn around and walk out of the garden, pause outside to look over my shoulder. The tree hasn’t moved. “You comin’?”

“Herald, is this wise?” Cas asks.

Strolling toward her, I catch her gaze. “You want it hanging around the vegetable patches while a hapless farmer tends to tomatoes?”

Cas doesn’t hesitate. “No, of course not. But where will it go?”

I shrug. “No idea.”

“Perhaps, the Brecilian Forest will be a suitable place for a spirit such as this. The rumour is that there are sentient trees there,” Solas says. He adds something else, in elvhen this time, so I assume he’s addressing the tree. A moment later, the sound of his footsteps alerts me that he’s following.

“Korkari Wilds. I heard sylvans inhabit it as well.” While I don’t remember the circumstances, my mind insists that I did, in fact, hear it at some point. I see no reason to distrust it.

“That cursed place isn’t safe, not even for a sylvan,” Varric says with authority. “The way Hawke talked about it, it’s a nightmarish place, full of mist and darkspawn and freezing temperatures. A plum would never survive there, possessed or not.”

As we talk, we fall into a two-by-two formation, with Cas and me in the lead. I stop at the porch of the house and knock on the door. The wood is old, scratched in many places, dry and dark, but far from crumbling into dust.

“Is someone alive?” I shout. “We killed the demons. You can come out now.” Something shuffles inside, and, quieter, I add, “Man, I hope we aren’t about to walk in on a walking corpse or an abomination.”

“Who are you?” a female voice asks, muffled but audible to everyone present.

“The Spanish Inquisition!”

A pause. Cas raises her eyebrows. Then, “Never heard of you,” the voice replies.

“We are with _the_ Inquisition,” Cas says, taking over the conversation. “Regardless, the demons are no more, and the rift is closed. You can leave the house without fear.”

I hear the sound of a bar being lifted, a light drag of wood on metal. The door opens. An elven woman in her early thirties peers at us, her face free of any blemishes or tattoos. She studies us, shielding her eyes with a narrow, callused hand.

“Thank you. I’ve spent two weeks inside. One more day, and I wouldn’t care about no demons.”

Cas inclines her head. “It was no trouble.”

“None whatsoever,” I confirm. “Though your garden is one plum tree short, and I hope you don’t mind demonic fertiliser because it’s got a lot of that.”

The woman frowns, sighs, her shoulders slumping, and opens the door wider. Behind her is a room with little furnishing — a rough-hewn table, a bed with a threadbare cover, a chest.

“My husband liked that tree. Not like it matters anymore,” the woman says and lowers her hand. Her eyes are dry, red, and puffy.

I shift from foot to foot. “Our condolences.”

She snorts as if I said something funny, but her tan skin loses some of its colour. “Empty words won’t bring him back. If you are the Inquisition as you say, see justice done! The blighted templars killed him when he was digging out a stump. The fools couldn’t tell a shovel from a mage’s staff. ‘Had to be safe,’ they said, ‘Rebels everywhere, attacking by surprise.’” She spits on the ground, her face — a study in disgust. “Sick bastards! They took the ring I gave him on our wedding day in case it was magic.” Her voice shakes, and her hands ball into fists. “They deserve to die!”

It’s a story the variations on which, I expect, happen all over Thedas. And yet, it’s so fucking stupid! That bloody ring couldn’t cost more than a handful of Silvers. This woman had to bury her beloved because of greed and cruelty, and how many others had, are, and will suffer the same? I swallow, force my throat to work. “We will look into it, I promise.”

She nods, biting her trembling lower lip, and shuts the door in my face.

“Well,” Varric says after a moment of awkward silence, “it appears we have another quest.”

“Guess so,” I agree, blinking at the crack in the wooden surface ten inches away from my nose.

We return to the road. After a while, shuffling and thuds follow. They are quiet and easily lost among the clanking of Cas’ shield and weapons and our heavy footfalls, but my uber-hearing picks them up. I fall back.

Varric sends me a questioning glance, but I answer with a minuscule shake of my head, and he lifts a shoulder in a one-sided shrug and keeps going.

I pause. The shuffling stops as well. _Hmm._ I take three steps, hear the sound of my follower doing the same, and pivot on my heels.

The plum tree freezes with part of its roots up; small lumps of dark soil slide from them and flop onto the needle covered trail.

I stare, at a loss for what to say. It’s not like I can adopt it, is it? A sentient tree hanging out with a mage is a little too conspicuous for regular folks to overlook. On the other hand… Why the hell not? Besides, I did ask it if it was coming. Seems unfair to dump it now, even if the sylvan did misunderstand my words.

“Keep up, will ya?” That said, I hurry to catch up with my companions before they run into trouble or, worse, get too far away. The prospect of wandering the Hinterlands without a map doesn’t look appealing.

“What was that about?” Varric asks when I fall into step with him.

“Mm?” I widen my eyes and point at a hill not far ahead. “Oh, look — a creepy sculpture!”

“Shiny, trust me, this tactic _never_ works.”

I keep on pointing.

Varric sighs and relents. His head tilts back and eyes narrow. “You are right. It is creepy.”

“Perhaps, we should investigate,” Solas says over his shoulder.

I agree. “Without a question.”

The path up the hill goes the most circuitous route, rounding every rock formation, bush, and pine along the way. I’d scale it head-on, but Cas insists on being difficult. An age later, I come face to face with a skull on a pedestal. Going by its size, I doubt it belonged to a human. Then again, it might be a compound structure.

“Who placed a skull up here? And for what purpose?” Cas asks. I take it as a rhetorical question.

Small imperfections — dents, shallow cracks — decorate the yellowed bones. The lower jaw is missing, and chipped teeth bite into the top of the pedestal, decorated with seemingly random lines. On the back of the skull is a round lens.

“Is it some kind of an ocular?” My eyebrows, it seems, miss each other very much, so they arrange a meeting.

Solas touches the thing, and it lights up like a Christmas tree in Halloween Town: an eerie green glow emanates from the lens and eyeholes; a sigil develops in the heart of concentric ovals on the pedestal’s upper half.

A word floats up to the surface of my mind, and I taste it: “Ocularum.” It’s stale on my tongue. I’m getting a bad vibe from it. Also, weird looks, but that’s just par for the course at this point.

Solas looks into the lens and takes a step back with an odd expression. “The skull illuminates certain objects in the distance. I am not familiar with such magic.”

“Of course, it had to be a skull that lights up creepy shit,” Varric mutters.

A hint of a smile makes it to my face. “Something you don’t know, huh, Solas?”

He regards me with the barest hint of humour. “I never claimed to know everything, Herald. Only most useful things.”

In a slightly better mood, I take his place. A violet circle of the skull’s sight catches a glare front and centre when I point it at a fort below. Same thing happens in three other locations. I do my best to memorise them.

When I’m reasonably certain I can find them while sleepwalking, Varric is shifting his weight from foot to foot and Cas’ throwing watchful glances around like she expects an army of undead to march up and demand the skull for one of its generals. Solas is still and impassive. Honestly? I didn’t expect anything else from him.

“Let’s find out what’s this all about.”

We backtrack, Cas at my side, and naturally, who would be waiting on the edge of the road if not my newest acquaintance.

“Herald.” Cas puts a lot of different meanings in my title. There are a note of incredulity, a flavour of exasperation, various shades of ‘really?’ and ‘I should have known’ and ‘why am I even surprised.’ All in two syllables. Frankly, I’m impressed.

“What?” I cross my arms over my chest. “It goes where it wants. I’m not its keeper.”

“You sure, Shiny?” Varric pipes up. I can hear the smile in his voice. The tree shifts closer and bends a branch in my direction. A small, bright green leaf pops out of the lonely bud on its end.

“Aww…” Pulling my gloves off, I touch it: silky, _fragile_. “Aren’t you adorable?”

Varric chuckles. “Looks to me, you’ve acquired a follower you won’t get rid of all that easily.”

“What kind of spirit can it be, do you know, Solas?” Cas asks while I melt at the tree’s cuteness and think up names. _Greeny? Naw. Bud? Pff, no. Bumblebee? Eh??_

“It is impossible to say,” Solas answers. “We will have to watch its behaviour and base our guesses on what it does. Maybe it is a spirit of gratitude or loyalty. It seems unusually attached to the Herald.”

Varric taps my arm to get my attention. “You realise you won’t be able to keep it, don’t you? I hate to break it to you, but people won’t look kindly on this kind of weird magic shit. They’ll see a sylvan, think, _‘A-A-Ah!’_ and run in the other direction. Common folk don’t make a distinction between demons and spirits.”

The tree slumps, and I pat its trunk. “There, there.”

“Are you going to say that it’s like Andraste’s mabari — a faithful companion sent to help you by the Maker himself?”

I squint, thinking it over. “That’s not a bad idea. With the right spin…”

Varric shakes his head. “Nobody will buy that.”

The tree stills and pulls a Groot: a tiny white flower blooms next to the leaf. It lowers the branch to Varric’s eye level. His expression softens.

“Eh, we will think of something,” I say, glancing at Cas in time to see her sigh. “Brighten up! Come spring, Groot here will provide us with our very own plums. All natural. _Organic_.”

“Groot?” Cas frowns, and I shrug.

“It needed a name.” I glance at the sylvan. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Judging by the directions of its gentle swaying, it doesn’t. I smile.

With Varric muttering about not getting too attached and Cas glancing at the sky and silently praying for patience, we move on, the tree officially in tow. I’ve expected more of an argument, but as the saying goes, gift horses with bad teeth are a good source of protein. Or something like that.

The bridge connecting our hill and the one with the fort has collapsed. One of the two stone mabaris guarding it fell to the side. A quick glance down reveals massive chunks of masonry littering the ravine below. The fort itself isn’t all that hot either: it has no roof, and most of the outer walls were breached a _lo-o-ong_ time ago.

I look for another way across and find it with a bonus rift. It’s chilling out above a clearing in a circle of pines — probably the reason I didn’t see it in the Ocularum — near the end of the ravine, a handful of feet away from the fort’s left wing.

“Groot, stay.” I don’t take my eyes off the gleaming crystal and trust my pet sylvan to wait by the bridge. Not that demons will attack it, but, as I keep reminding myself, there’s nothing _friendly_ about friendly fire.

I cast a barrier, Solas reinforces it, and we fan out. The rift activates and spits demons. Stab, stab, kill, kill later, I snap it closed. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I whirl around, a fireball forming at the top of my staff—

Groot shuffles about, keeping at an arm’s length distance.

Slowly, I exhale, listening to the heartbeat thundering in my ears, and relax my grip on magic. The half-formed spell dissipates into the Fade. “What did I tell you?”

The sylvan roots underfoot and offers me a glistening, violet, slimy ball. _Ugh._

“Spirit Essence,” Solas says, appearing near my shoulder. “An excellent find.” He tries to take it, but Groot detracts the root holding it out of his reach and extends it to me from the other side.

“You should accept the offering, Herald,” Solas comments. The corners of his lips curl up.

Suppressing a grimace, I cup my hands. Groot shakes the Essence off. It smacks my palms, and I shudder. “Thanks, buddy.”

In response, the tree radiates happiness. Another leaf pops on one of its branches. Wonderful. Yeah, I’ve definitely gotten a pet. What's next? Dead mice on my pillow?

We get into the fort through a gap in the outer wall of the left wing. Time and weather took their toll on the bricks, and wild vegetation loosened them even further. Beams of sunlight falling between the tree branches and remaining battlements coat parts of the courtyard with light, cutting them out of cool shadows.

“That tower is impressive. I wonder what dreams it might hold?” Solas says, looking straight ahead.

Directly before us is a more or less preserved part of the structure. Tattered remains of a banner hang over the arching entryway free of any kind of door. Inside, a hooded figure crouches on a crumbling platform. A raven caws from its perch on the figure’s right shoulder. At the base of the platform is an altar. Skulls fill clay vases, one of which has been broken and spilt its content to the floor. An offering dish sits below a mural cleared of the vines crisscrossing the rest of the platform.

A black bear and a white woman with a wreath upon her head and a pair of antlers growing out of her temples are locked in a hug, the bear’s large green paws engulfing most of her torso. Cracks spiderweb the paint. The longer I look at the tail of the woman’s flowing cloak, the clearer the faces staring at me from a sliced up picture become. The one in the centre has a crown. I blink, and the image shatters, leaving behind only chips of white on grey stone.

“Fereldan art, eh?” I say, shivering. “Wanna nap here, Solas? I wouldn’t mind a glimpse of the rituals this fellow witnessed.”

Solas inclines his head, tilting it to his shoulder, and considers my offer. “It would be illuminating.”

“I don’t believe human sacrifices are in practice. Not anymore.” Cas looks at the piles of skulls with distaste. “This fort must be very old, indeed, to attract such an obscure cult.”

“Seems abandoned, though.” I return into the courtyard and have to amend, “Or maybe not quite.”

In the farthest right corner, a tent sits near a burning campfire. Nearby, another mural depicts something with many arms and tails, a little serpentine in appearance, with a red stoppered bottle of what I assume is a healing potion as the centrepiece. The vases and skulls on the bench underneath it are whole, although, thankfully, not new.

I wander around, looking for more murals, and find a stylised depiction of a black mabari the size of a bull. A fallen column blocks the entrance into the left tower, but the way the walls broke down left inviting stairs for me to climb to the second floor. A skinned wrist and a bruised knee later, I revise my opinion. ‘Luring’ is more like it. Still, a part of the wooden flooring is intact. There’s a ladder in the stone well that used to be the tower. It looks like a recent addition. Now, why would that be, I wonder? This I must investigate!

I slide down to the bottom of the well.

“Hidden treasures, where are you?” Hm… if I were to hide something valuable, where would I put it? The answer comes immediately: in a safe deposit in a Swiss bank. Barring that, however, a pile of rocks would do. Like the one near the east wall here.

The rocks make a rapid staccato as I swat them around but under them is only a bundled old cloth. A dummy?

Next, I dig into a mound. Its colour is lighter than the packed earth of the ground. A-ha! There’s a coffer. I pick it up and notice a chest standing in the shadowed corner. On closer inspection, it’s teetering on the verge of expiring: rusted metal planks barely hold the weatherworn wood together. I push the lid up and check the content.

* * *

When I descend the ‘stairs’, Varric is sitting at the base of the wall, basking in the sun. His face is turned up, eyes closed. He appears to be completely unaware of my presence. I don’t believe it for a moment.

“Can you pick this lock?” I ask, holding the coffer in his line of sight.

He takes it without looking and squints as his eyes adjust to the light. “‘Course.” A sleight of hand, and Varric shoves two long, narrow sticks into the lock, moves them this way and that. I hear a click, and Varric smiles. “Piece of cake.”

“All right, I’m impressed. You need to teach me this trick.”

Popping the lid open, Varric hums in what I hope is an affirmation. “What’s this?”

“I’d say it’s a scroll, but I think you can see that yourself. How about ‘a detailed, gory description of sacrificial rituals performed at the shrines’?”

“That’s a cheerful thought,” Varric mutters, unrolling the vellum. “A recipe for Rock Armour tonic?” His eyebrows fly up. “A nice catch.”

I scrunch up my nose. “I’d prefer ritualistic practices. Then, at least, I’d know more about this cult.”

“Was there anything else interesting?”

I shrug. “I left a pile of rags where they were: in another chest.”

“Found any mouldy pants?”

“Yeah.” I blink. That’s weirdly specific. “But I don’t think they’re worth the hassle of carrying them in my pack. Nobody buys shit they can find for free.”

Varric snorts. “You’d be surprised. Hawke couldn’t pass a pair. He used to collect all kinds of garments, be that dirty trousers, pantaloons, or even a chewed up hat. I think he singlehandedly flooded the whole Kirkwall market with them.”

“That’s… kinda disturbing, to be honest.”

“Tell me about it. But Hawke bought half his library just on the pantaloons’ profit, or so the story goes.” The melancholic mood he got into at the mention of his bestie fades, and Varric smirks. “It might be the shortest way to fund the Inquisition. Won’t know until you try, Shiny.”

I grin. “Hey, Cas, what would you pay for a pair of rotten trousers?”

Cas pauses surveying the area. The look she sends me over her shoulder is flatter than a squashed pancake. “Nothing.”

“How about you, Solas?”

The elf raises his eyebrows. “I’d be willing to pay you not to bring them near my person, thank you.”

“I see.” The wheels in my head are turning. “How much?”

“Herald,” Cas says, “please, don’t collect anything that you won’t put on yourself. Varric, stop giving her ideas!”

“Thwarted again.” Assuming a wounded pose, I clutch at my heart. “Please, tell me a joke — save me from the tedium of world domination!”

“Last I checked, we were saving the world, not conquering it,” Varric counters.

“Eh, details. I’m undecided at this point in time. There’s a lot to consider, you know. I’d look pretty in a crown.”

A tree branch snakes around me and leaves tickle my neck. I giggle. “Thanks, Groot.” I straighten up and smile at the sylvan. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

Cas heaves a weary sigh. “You aren’t going to get rid of it, are you?”

Widening my eyes, I adopt a pitiful expression. Cas shakes her head, probably rueing the day the Inquisition was saddled with my ridiculous self. Time to change the topic.

“So did you find anything?”

In reply, Solas shows me a rectangular chunk of white ceramic with a humanoid skull in the middle. The uneven edges suggest it’s a part of a larger picture.

“I cannot say what it is” — as Solas speaks, electric blue currents run through its surface, smooth like a river or a soothing melody of a harp — “but there must be a reason the skull illuminated this object.”

I poke the shard with a fingertip to no effect. It’s clearly enchanted, but I don’t feel anything hostile. I wonder what did the whole thing form. “Mmm, no. I don’t want to tangle in this mess. Something is fishy about it. No sane person would encase skulls of sentient beings in magical pottery.”

“Well, we can’t just leave it here. Who knows what kind of shit it does. Don’t want anyone else to stumble upon it and accidentally unleash another Blight or something equally horrific,” Varric says.

“Agreed. I will keep the shard.” Solas nods, hiding it in his backpack. “The answer may present itself in time.”

* * *

We leave the fort through the same gap we came in and amble forward. Starting from the left tower, a shorter wall, broken into even intervals with mabari shaped pillars, borders the cliff side of the hill. Perhaps, once upon a time, it was not a fort but a castle’s keep.

“Seeker,” Solas says out of the blue, “you initially believed our ‘Herald of Andraste’” — and though he, too, calls me Herald, the air quotes are palpable — “was involved in the attack on the Conclave, yes?”

“I did.” Cas’ voice is even. “The evidence seemed damning, given the lack of an alternative.”

“Yet you changed your mind.”

“You heard the voices at the temple, too,” Cas says, turning to face him. “Is it so surprising I listened to them?”

“Sadly, yes. Too few invested with authority possess the courage to alter their course. They fear the appearance of weakness.”

I’m curious when and where did Solas get this impression. An elf clothed like a peasant talking about Thedosian bigwigs with confidence? Not an everyday sight. Might be kitchen politics, of course, but Solas speaks with aplomb and the tight lines around his eyes and mouth mark the topic as all too personal. It’s baffling, but now, I feel, is not the time to ask.

“The truth is more important than my reputation,” Cas says, “and anyone willing to accuse me of weakness is welcome to try.”

“Nobody is foolish enough to challenge you outside of open combat — though I doubt our enemies know who they are tangling with beforehand — but I’d like to see that,” I say, grinning.

Cas replies with a fleeting smile, “I will let you know if such a situation occurs.”

Twigs snap ahead. My gaze whips in that direction. Before I can make a conscious decision, my fingers are holding the staff in front of me. A group of armed men dressed in patched up leathers is strolling between the trees. One of them is talking; the other four listen with varying attentiveness.

I lower my voice as not to alert them. “We’ve got company. Fifty Silvers say they are going to attack us on sight.”

Varric snorts. “No, thanks. It would be like betting against the sky being blue or the Merchant’s Guild being chock-full of self-entitled pricks.”

“They might be simple travellers,” Cas says, tilting her head with the slightest of frowns.

Varric raises his eyebrows, looking at her in disbelieve. “Really, Seeker?”

The men get closer and finally spot us.

“ _A-Arr!_ ” one of them says, going for his sword and taking off at a run. Twice, his weapon swings perilously close to his comrades, who follow his example without the need to speak.

“What did I tell you?” I ask no one in particular while throwing a barrier. “There’s something in the water.”

The first man to reach us brandishes his sword like a club and aims for Cas. She sidesteps his clumsy attack, and the man flies forward with a hilariously flabbergasted expression. As if he expected this tactic to work. _Pff._ _Honestly_. Cas bashes the back of his head with the hilt of her sword. The man’s eyes roll back; his fingers slacken and release the weapon. It hits the ground. The man drops like a sack of bricks right after.

“Kill the warrior!” shouts a caveman with matted hair and beard, making a wild stab at Cas from the side and likely expecting reinforcement but getting only a stone fist to the chest.

We haven’t been idle: out of the initial group, only he and an archer aren’t incapacitated. Yet. While Cas was busy, my lightning and Solas’ Fade fist took down a man wielding a rusty morning star. Varric’s bolts knocked out a portly fellow armed with a dagger.

An arrow bounces off my barrier, and I curse. _Mustn’t get distracted in a fight. Right._ Focusing on the archer before he can do any real damage, I catch him in Winter’s Grasp, powering it just enough to paralyse but avoid permanent harm since we are, apparently, showing mercy. To my left, a body sinks to the ground, Cas standing victorious over the unconscious man.

The whole fight lasted less than five minutes.

“Well.” I transfer my gaze from one unkempt man to another. All of them are breathing. “That was pathetic.”

Narrowing his eyes, Solas tilts his head away from the unwashed body of the portly fellow. The man lost control of his bladder, poor thing. Though, to be fair, his comrades also stink to high heavens. Never heard of soap, this lot.

“These are common thugs, used to preying on unarmed victims,” Solas says. “I wouldn’t expect battle finesse from their ilk.”

“What are we going to do with them?” My everything rebels against the idea of killing them now. Leave them be? They’ll go back to their criminal ways.

“At the very least, we should take their weapons, subpar as they are,” Solas says.

Cas chews on the inside of her lower lip, struggling with the same dilemma I do. Finally, she says, “Let’s tie them up and send word to the Crossroads. The mayor will decide their fate.”

I nod. “Fine by me.”

We leave the thugs hogtied and divested of their worldly possessions beside the fire in the fort’s courtyard. I stock it before our departure. It doesn’t make sense to spare their lives only to let them freeze to death. And if whoever placed the skulls returns, well. All is in the hands of the Maker.

* * *

“A nice place for a camp, don’t you think?” Varric says a while and a short walk later, stopping next to a shallow pond at the base of a miniature waterfall.

My stomach growls, reminding me that even the ghost of today’s breakfast has already faded into a distant memory. I throw my backpack down and flop onto a flat rock. “I couldn’t agree more.”

We take a break from all the fighting and walking, wash down dry rations with water and refill our waterskins. Birds chirp overhead. A bush rustles. Fish splashes in the lake higher up the hill. The sounds of forest life have returned, thank gods. All is well. I close my eyes, breathe in the clean, pine-scented air, and try to become one with nature.

* * *

“Elfroot, another one, blood lotus, blood lotus, this makes three. Embrium, finally!” Crouching beside the pond, I cut stems and collect plants for my ever-growing collection. “Hey, Solas,” I call, continuing my work. “Did you get that recipe we talked about? For the sick woman?”

“Yes, Herald,” his voice drifts with a laziness borne of resting in a sunny spot with a full stomach. “I’m ready to make the potion at any time, provided that we can find Distillation Agent at the Crossroads.”

I nod like I know what the hell this agent is. An alchemist I am not. “Someone’s bound to have it.”

Before long, we are up and going. Six hundred feet later, the road dead-ends in an Ocularum, which marks the start of a sharp slope of the hill. The view on the burned down village and the fort we visited yesterday and passed by just this morning is decent enough. I scratch the spot directly beneath my left horn.

“Are we going in circles around the Crossroads or what?!”

“Looks like it,” Varric says, perfectly matching the tone of my voice.

Sighing, I gesture at the skull. “These things still give me the creeps. Solas, would you do the honour?”

He inclines his head in a regal and dignified agreement. “Of course.”

“What do you think these shards are for?” Varric asks.

“A mosaic representing Old Gods?”

“Nah,” Varric drawls. “Not enough dragons for that.”

“Maybe they are a part of a magical device that grants power,” Cas says, “that was broken to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands, and… What do you call them? Ah, Oculara. They must have been hidden with magic, too, since they help locate the shards. But now, with the creation of the Breach, the enchantment must have faded.”

Varric stares at her for a full minute, his lips parted. She did it: Cas broke my favourite dwarf! I snap my fingers in front of his eyes, and he blinks, coming out of a daze. “Quite the imagination you have, Seeker. You should try your hand in writing, see where it takes you.”

Cas blushes and shakes her head. “No. It’s not for me.”

“Wrote florid romance in your youth, did you?” I ask with a knowing grin and nudge her in the shoulder. “With ripped bodices and swooning at the drop of a hat?”

The colour of her cheeks darkens, and her gaze slides down and to the right. Cas’ hands smooth imaginary creases out of her leather coat, hover near her hips. “I did not. I have no talent with words, and so I leave that to the masters of the craft.”

Varric tsks. “If only that were a common attitude, it would spare me numerous rants courtesy of my editor.”

* * *

We get off the hill by climbing down a path consisting of rough, several feet high rocks. There’s no road, and the only other way down is to backtrack and go through the Crossroads. Several times, we stop and wait for Solas to collect a shard, somehow left untouched by the fire, lying between the charred frames or on a scorched foundation. Cas flags down a scout patrolling the area to tell her about the tied up bandits.

Skirting the fort, we enter a forest that Cas calls—

“Witchwood?” I raise my eyebrows. Given the usual attitude toward mages, whoever’s responsible for naming it must have hated the place. That, or there were witches and weird ritualistic shit in abundance. The air is damp and carries traces of moss and mould. Sunlight filters through the evergreens and occasional oaks, gathering in pools and patches on the ground. “A promising name for an apostate hideout.”

“Or for a spider nest,” Varric says as a _giant_ fucking spider — seriously, a bull would look tiny in comparison — scuttles across the forest floor.

“If it bites me” — I unsling my staff and, of course, cast a barrier — “will I gain unusual abilities?” — and a fireball. All it does is singe the hair on the spider’s front legs. Damn. I had much hope for that spell. “Like clinging to walls and having a heightened sense of awareness, that sort of thing?”

“No,” Cas states flatly. “You’ll be poisoned.”

“Where do you get these weird ideas, Shiny?”

I don’t reply, too busy dodging a stream of viscous white liquid. It hits the earth and _sizzles_ , eating away decaying black-brown leaves and pine needles. An acidic smell fills the air. Suddenly, my inclination to test my barrier against corrosive substances drops into negative points. My eyes widen of their own accord.

“Gods,” I whisper and hastily encase the spider in an icy prison, presenting Cas with an opportunity to get into the striking distance. She doesn’t hesitate in acting upon it, vigorously hacking at the spider. Chitin cracks along with the ice as Cas buries her sword to the hilt in its body.

An angry hiss and susurrous of many legs ghosting over the ground announce the arrival of more arachnids.

“They are coming from the rocks!” Cas points at the very top of the gully a hundred feet at our eleven where one more spider descends a steep wall. I shrug. It’s not like knowing their starting point does me any good.

I sidestep another jet of venom, renew the barrier covering myself and Cas, and trace a glyph with my left hand. _Concentrate._ A violet outline hangs in the air. With a flick of my fingers, I send it to its place. The gesture isn’t necessary — the effort is purely mental — but it makes visualisation easier. Besides, it looks cool.

Two spiders reach our vanguard at the same time. The concentric circles and dots of my glyph shine beneath their hairy feet, and the arachnids go airborne, flying backwards like they hit a foul-tempered trampoline. One lands on the forest floor, another meets a tree, getting the harsher end of the deal. Have they crashed into the gully’s wall, it would be infinitely more satisfying, but I’ll take what I can.

“Woo-hoo!” I fist pump, grinning. “That actually worked.”

“Excellent,” Solas’ voice comes from behind me just as his spell crushes one of the spiders. “Try Glyph of Paralysis next.”

The third arachnid’s abdomen explodes in a shower of ichor and spider guts. Its carcass lands fifty feet away, singed ends of four bolts sticking out of its chitinous back. I grimace. The smell is far from pleasant.

“Nice one, Varric!”

Cas charges the last spider, taking its venom on her shield. I provide support with a barrier,a lightning bolt — she hacks off two of the spider’s appendages — and Winter’s Grasp, freezing it rearing on its hind legs. Cas finishes it with a thrust of her sword into its softer underbelly.

In death, spiders curl in on themselves, drawing their feet to their bodies like flowers petals after sunset.

“What?..” I swallow, scrunch up my nose. Cas continues cutting into the spider. Its dark, opaque eyes have gone dull, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s staring at me.

“You said we need their glands,” Cas says, up to her elbow in the spider’s head and gripping one of its palps with her other hand to hold it steady. Her dagger catches on something soft and squelching. I shudder.

“Yeah, uh.” A lump forms in my throat. I look away and breathe through my mouth. Going by the sounds, Cas takes the dagger out and pulls— “I’ll leave you to that.” Slapping a hand over the lower part of my face, I beat a hasty retreat to the gully and, squeezing my eyes shut, lean against the rock. _Yuck_.

The squelching and ripping continue for a time. I hum under my breath to tune them out. Soon, however, I tire of cooling my heels. I look around: beside me is a painting done in the same style as the ones in the fort. It’s an ornamental thing, done in yellow, white, and black. Blocky shapes with flowers inside. For me, it’s meaningless, but I’m not an expert. It might be a representation of the universe, for all I know.

Farther ahead is a rock formation dividing the gully into two passages and at its base — _holy mother of fuck!_ — is a shrine to the ugliest Cthulhu ever. At its feet, flames burn in a metal dish, surrounded by carefully arranged wreaths of white flowers. The idol’s mouth gapes from its mushroom-like head, ready to suck in offerings. _Ugh._

I turn my back to the monstrosity. A shiver runs down my neck as if someone is watching. Valiantly ignoring it, I return to the mural and wait for Cas to finish with the spiders there, Groot keeping me company.

Ten feet into the Gully of the Burnt Man — _a_ _charming name, that_ — a pack of five large, black wolves with glowing green eyes walk out of the narrow trench connecting the passages. We cease all motions. The wolves growl, a low sound climbing higher and higher, reverberating off the rocky walls.

Next to me, Varric pulls Bianca into position, his index finger inches toward the trigger.

“Easy there,” he says in a calm and quiet voice, carrying a breathy undertone. It’s actually rather appealing.

The growling intensifies. Evidently, the wolves don’t share my taste. With froth bubbling on their snarling mouths, they stalk closer.

A chill travels down my spine. I cast the barrier without the help of my staff. Avoiding sudden movements, we go for our weapons. The largest, meanest, and craziest wolf squats on its hind legs. Its pupils dilate. The wolf jumps.

Shouting in surprise, I whack the side of its head with my staff, using it like a baseball bat and throwing the wolf off trajectory. It veers left, onto Cas’ waiting sword.

Varric leaps back, firing. His bolt pierces the hide of the wolf on the right. Solas— casts something while three fucking demonic Cujos make me their primary target. My barrier absorbs the first few swipes of sharp-clawed paws. And then, it pops.

One of the wolves locks its jaw on my staff and shakes its head, trying to rip it from my grasp. Holding the shaft with both hands, I block the second mutt’s attempts to bite into my side. The third goes for my legs and gets a kick in the mouth but shakes it off like nothing and tries for another go.

“Cas!” I shout as my heart races to my heels. Cold sweat dampens my shirt. I can’t fend them off indefinitely. “Fucking _do_ something already!”

“Hold on!” she replies. “More are coming.”

I can’t spare a moment’s attention, but judging by the snarls and occasional whines, she has her hands full and isn’t dilly-dallying.

Kicking and cursing through gritted teeth, I back away. The wolves claw at my chest, and just when it starts to _really_ hurt, a barrier cuts it off. A bolt lances the head of the wolf using my staff as a chew toy, bursting its left eye and burying deep into the brain. Droplets of liquid drizzle on my face. The eerie green light goes out of its other eye, and the wolf hangs on my staff like a _dead weight_.

The second wolf’s left ear is missing. A wicked, poorly healed scar bisects its muzzle. Just as I come up with a perfect nickname, the wolf jumps back, pushing off my stomach and unbalancing me in the process. Scarface circles its fallen pack mate while the third wolf, dubbed Scruffy for the sorry state of its fur, snaps its teeth too close to my thigh. I knee it in the head. Scruffy snarls. Swinging the staff so the dead wolf protects my right side with its bulk, I bury the bladed end in Scarface, throwing all my body into the action. The wolf thrashes on the ground, pitiful whines coming out of its muzzle. Blood leaks out of the entrance wound, pools under its body. I step on its neck and pull the blade out—

Pain rips into my ass, momentarily robbing me of my breath. With the next inhale, however, I howl. _“Fu-u-ucking hell!”_ I’m sure they hear me back in Haven.

The third fucking mutt bit me on the left ass cheek! If not for the agonising sensations bombarding my nerve endings, I’d appreciate the absurdity of the situation. I’d expect Solas to come to my aid, but the proximity and my intimate connection with the wolf raise the risk of me getting burnt, frozen, or electrocuted along with it. Thank all that’s holy, Varric shoots it instead. Twisting my torso, I stab Scruffy again and again, and finally, its jaw relaxes. Roots embrace its body like earth covered tentacles, pull the wolf back and throw it aside.

I muster up a ghost of a smile as Groot shuffles closer. “Thanks, buddy.”

No one attacks. I glance around and discover all the wolves dead. A quick visual check of my backside, and I sigh with relief: no tears in my coat mean the damage must be superficial. Half a bottle of elfroot potion down, and I’m good as new. Or I would be, if my ‘new’ meant tired, sweaty, and covered in questionable substances.

My fingers have gone cold inside my gloves, and now, as I pry the dead wolf off the shaft of my staff, they don’t cooperate. Groot helps me out. As soon as he’s done, I nod, march to Scruffy’s carcass, and kick it. Varric chuckles. I slam my foot into the wolf once more and whirl to face the dwarf. “Meet my future carpet.”

A wry smile stretches Varric’s lips. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “How’s your ass?”

Involuntary, I rub the hurt spot. “Pert and sexy.”

Squinting his right eye, Varric tilts his head to the side. “Any new holes in it?”

Cas makes a pained noise. I glance her way: she’s stopped cleaning her sword to shoot a disapproving look at Varric and shake her head.

“Wanna check?” I ask, wagging my eyebrows.

“Thanks, I’ll pass.” Varric gestures at the wolf. “Need help skinning this beast?”

In the mood for revenge, even if the enemy’s already dead, I decline. Rummaging in my backpack, I find a cloth, damp it with water and wipe my face as best as I can. I’m sure it’s not up to my usual standard, i.e. squeaky clean, but that will have to wait. First, I squat beside the wolf and get down to business.

Though we are fairly close to the village, we can’t leave the wolves for out people to collect. As Solas explains, wolves start to decay quickly, rendering their pelts unusable. While we are playing at happy taxidermists, Varric scouts ahead, making sure nobody’s about to ambush us.

I cut into the animal’s abdomen and think of roses. Nice smelling, red, sweet roses.

“No normal wolf would fight with such determination,” Cas says, working on one of her own kills.

“The Breach might have driven them mad… Or perhaps a demon took control of the pack,” Solas replies.

I scrunch up my nose, a thought occurring to me. “Can demonic wolves get rabies?” The Looks — with a capital L — ensue. “What? It's a valid concern.”

Cas pulls a face, like she has a toothache and a headache all at one. “They didn't seem infected…”

“It is unlikely.” Solas _hmms_ , cutting his wolf with smooth, precise gestures. He is quite handy with a blade. “In any case, I can prepare a potion that will take care of the infection if you are, in fact, sick. With Distillation Agent, we should have all ingredients.” That and his calm tone reassure me somewhat.

The pelts stink of death and raw meat when we stuff them into our backpacks — no time or means to hang them to dry — and I worry that the smell will cling to my other possessions.

* * *

“I tell you, this place is bad news.” Juice runs down my fingers as I bite a piece of stringy meat off a twig. I chew it, swallow. A kingdom for a wet wipe. “Why the hell is this fire still burning? Who keeps it alive?”

“Not these poor bastards,” Varric says, pointing at the pair lying on the other side of the fire pit, “that’s for sure.”

We’ve moved deeper into the gully to a ready-made picnic spot. It has two corpses so old that only bones are left in their rusted armour, a wooden bench, a mural of two mabaris sitting back to back and looking in the opposite directions, and, of course, a roaring campfire to recommend itself. I keep expecting the skeletons to get up and swing their weapons at my person. Why wouldn’t they? Everything else is hell-bent on killing me these days. Frankly, I’m surprised the rabbit I’m eating hasn’t attempted to choke me with a bone.

“It is strange,” Cas agrees but leaves it at that.

* * *

The way between the rock walls narrows and widens. In one of the wider areas, we find a druffalo.

Cas stops and looks at it, her eyebrows rising. “What does it do here?”

“Chills out?” I hazard a guess. The druffalo is black, broad, and large. It looks like a buffalo with tusks and horns that make mine weep with envy, and have I mentioned its size? But while it can trample a dozen of me easy as sneezing, the animal doesn’t do anything at all, not even graze a patch of moss or an elfroot growing beside its front hooves.

Varric gives the druffalo a long, contemplating look. “Let’s leave it alone for now. No need to invite trouble when they can find us on their own.”

My shoulders slump, and I pout. “Ow, and here I was picking the colour for their RSVP cards.”

“Save them for a slow day,” Varric says while Groot pops another flower to cheer me up. Solas, I belatedly notice, keeps quiet.

* * *

The gully spills into a ravine, divided by a river into two craggy shores. There’s also a dormant rift hanging near a waterfall forming said river. Fabulous!

Of course, the misty, ever-changing hourglass transforms into an active crystal as soon as I move an inch toward it. The ground lights up with smaller — temporary — tears in the veil, and demons jump through them like so many jack-in-the-boxes.

Solas’ barrier settles over me as crippling fear takes root in my soul. The lining of my gloves soak up sweat forming on my palms, and I spare a moment to be thankful for them. The image of my staff slipping out of my hands is terrifying. The rush of water falling onto rocks makes me think of bashed skulls and drowning. Sunlight gets into my eyes, and all I see is white sand and exposed skin of a person’s back — a mess of the third-degree burns. _What in the void is wrong with me?_

“Herald!” Cas’ shout knocks me out of my stupor.

As fast as I can, I cast a chain lightning, hoping to hit two despair demons swaying close to each other. The electricity jumps from one demon to another but doesn’t even dream of a chance to take them down. All my spell does is make them twitch. The demons retaliate.

Twin streams of ice rush toward me. I dodge to the left. My barrier implodes. I miscalculated the trajectories and didn’t get far enough. Raising my staff, I gather mana to recast it. The hair on the back of my neck and my arms stand at attention. Before I finish the spell, pain slams into my shoulder blades, and I stumble forward.

A spiked tail swishes through the air, connects with my lower back. Only blind luck saves me from the repeat of the despairs’ weaponised icicles: my legs give out; the stinging in my palms and knees have nothing on the blinding agony that is my back. Ice flies overhead, going through the space where my chest has been and bringing the smell of an arctic morning, hits the demon looming over me. It screeches.

In any other circumstances, I’d appreciate the irony of despair saving me from terror. Hawking up globs of red tinged mucus, I try to stay calm. Black spots crowd the edges of my vision. I gulp the air and can’t get enough of it. Voices shout. Feet stomp. Magic pulls at the Fade. I moan, wishing to sob and curl into a foetal position.

Supple vines wind over my chest and stomach, whisk me away from the frozen demon. I shut my eyes and do not scream as a root accidentally pokes one of my wounds. The pain roars, conquering the everestian height of its peak, and, temporary weightless, I plummet into the Neverland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wrap up the Hinterlands, but the word count reached 15k, and I still wasn't anywhere near finished. I swear I'll move the party to another location in the next chapter even if it kills me! Next update should be in January.
> 
> Questions? Thoughts? A bone to pick up? There's a convenient box at the bottom of the page so that you can leave me a message.


	6. Still Hinterlands

I regain consciousness lying on my stomach. The buckle of my backpack — and why in the nine circles of hell did I left it with Groot?! — is digging into my cheek. Smells on the air paint a picture of a cave, but the sounds of a nearby river brush it aside. My back is wet; tongue and throat, in contrast, are parched like I haven’t had a sip of water in a week. A headache from outer space blasts the inner landscape of my head with lava. The pain’s dialled down to a manageable four.

“Wmhm,” comes out of my mouth when I want to ask what happened.

A cool hand lands on my forehead, and I sigh with relief.

“Welcome back,” Solas’ voice says just above my ear. He helps me up into a sitting position. Once again, I wonder at his strength, but the thought is muted, overshadowed by the needs of my body. He holds a waterskin to my lips while I drink. My skin is clammy, and I can’t lift a twig. Damn, I must have been in deeper shit than I imagined.

“Thanks,” I say as soon as Solas draws the waterskin away. “Where did Cas and Varric go?”

He settles on his bedroll, his posture relaxing with glacial slowness. Shadows that have nothing to do with the lighting and everything with exhaustion bruise the skin under his eyes. His face is ashen. “Went to scout the area.” He takes a deep breath. I follow the rise and fall of his chest and catch myself on mimicking the rhythm. “We had to kill more wolves while you were —” his jaw tightens as Solas resists a yawn “— indisposed.” The corners of his mouth turn down, and his gaze slides to the crackling fire. I guess he isn’t keen on slaughtering possessed or mind-controlled animals. Or maybe he simply likes wolves.

Glancing around, I realise that Groot, who stands guard on the narrow path running along the steep shore, is not the only reason for the shade. Last I checked, the sun was a couple of hours past its zenith. Now? I’d say twilight isn’t too far ahead. Groaning, I get onto my feet and have to catch myself with a hand on a wall. I grimace. I hate feeling weak.

My staff is… on the ground. Fantastic. I have to kneel to pick it up or risk face-planting without the support of a crutch. “Solas?” He inclines his head. “Gimme my walking stick, please.”

His movements are lethargic as he obliges my request. “I wouldn’t recommend going anywhere.”

My fingers connect with the shaft. The cold emanating from the focusing crystal chills its upper end, licks my hand with icy tongues. My lips hold a hint of a smile as I say, “Need to stretch my legs before they lose all sensation.”

Solas makes a noncommittal noise and doesn’t move. His eyelids slide down.

I whisper to Groot to stand watch and cast three Glyphs of Repulsion. That should be enough to keep Solas safe until I return. I don’t go far. Stumbling and halting, I walk for several minutes when the sounds of battle reach my ears. Sometimes I hate to be right. Pain be damned, I speed up.

The path follows the river, narrowing into nonexistence before expanding into a clearing. All around me, the tall walls of the ravine bear signs of a long gone civilisation: some ancient people — I’ll go out on a limb and say dwarves — carved them into vertical blocks. Here and there, parts of stone structures rise out of the earth, but time had left very little intact to guess at their purpose. The clearing is a dead end: similar blocks round it into a perfect circle.

A statue of a bearded man wearing a diadem and hugging himself stands on a tall pedestal to my right. Definitely dwarven. But then, a stone mabari, solemn and proud, sits down the road, its head held parallel to the ground, so it looks up. Fereldan or Avvar. All these observations flash through my mind in the span of a minute as I limp forward, following the trail of dead wolves, pierced with bolts or a blade.

Cas fends off a duo of snarling canines with her shield, swinging her sword at the third. Varric has gotten onto a block so high, I doubt he will get down without assistance. Bianca sings, sending bolts into the backs of the animals clamouring at the block’s base. They snap their teeth and growl, pawing the stone. One jumps and closes its jaw inches from Varric’s boot. Cursing, Varric releases a bolt into its eye.

Figuring he can wait, I fry the nearest canine attacking Cas with a fireball and follow up with icing the next. She finishes off the third and pivots on her heel.

“Herald!”

“Later,” I mumble, focusing on casting a barrier. One of the remaining four wolves has taken notice of my arrival. Its paws eat the distance in leaps and bounds. All I can think about is to point my staff and blast it with cold. Even with the boost, I’m too weak to cast with any efficiency. The spell slows the animal down but doesn’t stop its progress. It jumps. Squinting, I adjust my grip. The blade slides between the wolf’s ribs, and I move to stay on my feet.

Yelps and whines, a wet squelch of a sword being pulled out of squishy insides, a thud of bone meeting unyielding surface fall to the periphery of my hearing. An insectoid shape of a terror demon appears between blocks on the right side of the clearing. Its jaw unhinges, goes down, down, down, presenting rows of wicked teeth fit to bite off my whole arm in one go. _This_ is the stuff of nightmares, not walking dead or being pushed onto a stage naked.

A lead ball drops into the base of my stomach. _No-no-no-no!_ screams a frantic voice in my head. As if all my barely healed injuries reopen under the demon’s beady eyes, the pain rears up and stabs my back with the memory of spikes and claws. I fucking freeze in primordial terror.

Swishing its tail, the demon winks out of existence, only to reappear close enough for me to give it a dental exam.

 _“Shiny!”_ Varric’s horrified voice spurs me into action.

The insectoid lunges. I duck between its feet. My whole body protests. Renew the barrier, cast lightning, miss, don’t think, stumble away from the spiked tail, don’t think, cast a wide blast of ice — damn precision! Nobody needs it — graze the terror’s leg, hampering its movements, don’t think. Rinse and repeat. By the end of the battle, I’m drenched with sweat. The skin of my back feels shredded and salted. My lungs burn as I suck in the thickening air.

I fall to my knees, renewing the bruises there. A pool of ectoplasm seeps into the earth. Sickly-green light having left their eyes, three black wolves scuttle into the passage.

“You shouldn’t have come!” Cas’ thighs take up the majority of my vision. I’m not about to complain. “You could have died,” she continues. Material rustles as she searches for a healing potion in her pockets. It’s taking longer than it should, like she’s forgotten where she put them.

“Couldn’t leave you without backup,” I croak. Cas makes a pained noise. I blink. Open my eyes.

Her face is level with mine, Cas says, “Drink,” and feeds me the potion.

“Shiny, you barely survived.” Varric’s here, too. He crosses his arms over his chest. _That chest hair._ “No amount of elfroot could have mended your lungs so quickly.” The way he talks, I gather he is angry. Damn. “Chuckles had to chug all his lyrium potions, he poured so much magic into you.”

No wonder he couldn’t keep his eyes from closing. “Solas is bad at healing.”

“Yeah, well.” The downward turn of Varric’s mouth becomes more pronounced. “Where’s Blondie when you need him,” he mutters under his breath.

Sitting on her haunches, Cas shifts her weight. “Solas did all right by you.”

“ _All right_ isn’t going to cut it if she persists in getting maimed. A competent healer would have saved us a lot of trouble.” Frowning, Varric raises a finger. “That’s why we need to find one.”

My breathing improves, ceasing to sound like Darth Vader’s vocoder. Sadly, the rest of my battered body isn’t doing much better. Not sure how I’ll make it to the camp. To stall for time, I ask, “What happened earlier?”

“A Greater terror,” Varric says. “That’s what Chuckles called it. We had to flee, or we’d be short a Herald. Can’t run the Inquisition without its most famous member.” He smiles, but the hard look in his eyes stays.

Cas’ lips press into a tight line.

“If you wanna scold me,” I offer, “go ahead.” Being magnanimous is no skin off my nose, which is, perhaps, the only part of me not scratched or grazed.

Cas takes my hand. This is a surprise. It’s not the first casual contact she initiates, but it’s one of the nicest because I didn’t ask for it. “You couldn’t have predicted the demons being too strong for us.” Biting her lower lip, she shakes her head. “We scarcely made it out of the range the rift allows them to roam. If not for your pet spirit…” she trails off, sighs.

I feel like the greatest — and luckiest — moron alive. Sneaking around the damn tear to the way we came without triggering it is a concern for later. Varric side-eyes the passage between the blocks for the third time in so many minutes, and I say,“Go. We’ll wait right here till you find us something nice and shiny.”

He smirks. “A shiny trinket for Shiny?”

“Pun intended.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says, glancing at Cas. She doesn’t notice, focused on me as she is. Fifteen feet away, I stop hearing his footsteps. Stealthy as only a rogue can be, Varric slips out of sight.

The last rays of sunshine leave the clearing as the sun rolls behind the ravine’s walls. Deeming it safe, insects crawl out of their hiding places, filling the air with quiet buzzing. A breeze carries smells I’d rather be without. A coppery tang of blood, salty layers of old and fresh sweat, pungent animal musk and spilt guts, the sour-sweet hint of decay of the cooling carcasses. It all swirls into a punching cocktail.

“You shouldn’t put yourself at risk.” Cas breaks the silence. “We were fine. We would have been.”

“Mm.” I lick my lips with dry tongue, catch her gaze. “Can’t help it if I worry. What are friends for, right?”

The lines under her eyes ease, but— “You are too valuable to the world and to the Inquisition. We can’t afford to lose you, not now.”

 _Ah._ “Of course. Can’t close the Breach without my magic light.” It’s not as if I need an ego stroking. I realise the importance of the mark. Still, sadness embraces me like a well-worn cloak. The aches and twinges in my back let me know they haven’t forgotten me even if I tuned them out for several blissful moments. I want this day to end just about now.

Cas’ fingers tighten around mine. “Had you perished, I would have mourned you for _you_.” The look she gives me is so open and earnest, it can make a stone bleed. I’d kiss her if she wouldn’t stab me for it soon after.

I really don’t have a reason to feel so maudlin. No idea why I do, it’s not my thing. I banish the mood into the orbit and smile. “You are the best.”

* * *

Varric brings gold. I should have guessed.

“What, you couldn’t find a ruby or a garnet?”

He shrugs without a hint of an apology in his expression or body language. “Next time we meet a demon near its lair, you can complain about its hoard to its face before killing it. Might make you feel better.”

“I will be sure to shout insults while I sprint away.”

Varric chuckles. “A sound strategy.”

Cas helps me up, my legs barely cooperate. I foresee a long and painful hobble in my immediate future. Maybe there’s something to the premonition thing.

“Why do you need gemstones?” she asks with a curious lilt in her voice. Is my wanting jewellery so unexpected a concept?

My left horn itches and I scratch it. “To decorate my horns.”

Both Cas and Varric stare at said part of my body. Probably, imagining beaded necklaces and bracelets heaped on my horns like tinsel on a Christmas tree.

“It’s a Qunari tradition.” And if not, it totally should be.

Varric hums. “The Arishok wore gold bands around his.”

I rearrange my surprised expression into complete seriousness. “My blood calls for cultural heritage.”

They both see right through my bullshit: Cas rolls her eyes and Varric smirks.

“Well,” he says, “warn me if it starts calling for a bathtub with the blood of your enemies. I’ll make sure to be at a safe distance.”

Grinning, I crouch, which places our faces at more or less the same level, and snap my teeth.

* * *

In the morning, I give my last bottle of elfroot potion a mournful look and down its content. My back is dandy, but my lungs still feel like a patchwork quilt with rotten threads, ready to burst at any moment.

The sky lightens; its rim blushes pink-orange. Not that it matters: as far as I know, demons don’t sleep. Either way, as everyone is awake, I see no reason to delay. We pack up and sneak out of the ravine like bank robbers whose getaway car got a flat tire. Meaning, we hoof it to the rift and skedaddle as soon as the bloody crystal wakes up. No idea where the demons go when it isn't active. I doubt it sucks them back into the Fade, but there’s no one in sight until we cross an invisible line. Then, it’s like eight a.m. on Black Friday and we are the best deal in the mall.

We sprint through the gully, past the druffalo and the fire with the skeletons, and spill into the forest. I stop and crumble inwards, supporting myself with my palms on my knees. Blood rushes in my ears, and the air is in short supply. _Not good._

The twittering of birds and buzzing of insects reassure me that we are safe. At least, from one type of enemies. I tilt my head to the side, hold my breath, and listen.

Cas stops beside me. “Do you hear anything, Herald?”

“Mm, no. But something isn’t right.” Like a string out of tune, it catches on my senses. _Twang_ - _twang-twang_ , a-a-and… Gotcha! Straightening, I point to the left. “ _Disturbance in the Fade_. Fucking hell, never thought I’d use this phrase literally.”

Solas’ eyes narrow as he turns in the same direction. “Someone is channelling a significant amount of magic,” he says after a minute of silent staring.

“Should we investigate?” Cas asks.

“Or do the smart thing for once and go for backup?” Varric says.

I’m not up to snuff, what with being half-dead only yesterday and still suffering residual effects of lung injuries, but Solas is right. The ripples this magic sends across the Veil or into the Fade — I’m hazy on the details, and the feeling is most peculiar and hard to describe — are like those left by boulders thrown into a pond. For all I know, the apostates are putting up wards, creating a demon army, or sacrificing infants. It could be too late if we detour through the Crossroads. As much as it — quite literally — pains me, I unsling my staff and pointedly clutch it in a death grip.

Nobody else jumps at the chance to be sensible, either. Varric glances skyward and heaves a sigh. “Thought so.”

Less than ten minutes by my internal clock later, the reason we sensed magic becomes apparent. Enormous, gleaming ice crystals decorate the ground next to a cave opening. The whole space before it, in fact. Not a patch of land is untouched — the earth, the rocks, everything in a circular radius of about sixty feet is frozen solid. Including the bodies. There’s an awful lot of them, both in robes and not.

“Looks like we are late,” I say, examining a fellow in black armour. Some corpses are charred, some have puddles of blood frozen beneath them, and some — nothing at all. As I don’t see any glaring wounds under a thin layer of ice, I can’t decide what did this particular man in, but my guess is _poor judgment_. And magic, obviously.

Solas walks around the striking tableau. I name it Attacking Warriors, seeing as they were doing exactly that. “Or just in time, depends on your perspective.”

“So this group of bandits,” Varric says in a contemplative tone, and I bite my tongue not to correct him: _not-bandits_ , “happened upon the apostates and did our job for us.” He snorts. “That’s a first.”

“Not quite.” Solas gestures at the cave entrance and a glowing orange film filling it from edge to edge. “Someone has to be alive to cast it.”

“A force field! Cool!”

Cas eyes it with a frown, her sword points down, hanging in her hand. “How do we get through?”

“Like this.” A barrage of ice strikes the barrier. At first, it holds, but the longer I continue the attack, the less substantial it becomes. The orange film quivers and dissipates. Solas covers us with a barrier, and not a moment too soon. The second the entrance is unprotected, a fireball hurls forward. It hits the air before my face, disintegrating on the impact.

“That’s not very nice of you.” I tsk and retaliate with lightning. It downs the mage’s barrier for Varric’s bolt to pierce him in the eye. Humming the Imperial March under my breath, I enter the cave and step over the fallen apostate.

Cas makes short work out of a Gandalf lookalike — I assume he is the leader — while the rest of us deal with the three remaining men. Their skin has an unnatural pallor; they sway on their feet and chug mana potions like water. I even offer them to surrender, but, of course, nobody does. Looks like Varric’s right about the not-bandits. I wonder what’s their stake in it. Good Samaritans isn’t good enough an explanation. The fight would be laughably easy and brief if not for the last apostate who ducks behind obstacles and casts barriers faster than I can destroy them.

“Die, motherfucker! Die!” I growl as my nth lightning bold fails to do its job. His ears twitch as the mage hides behind a tent. I take the time to draw a paralysis glyph on either side of it. No matter which way he chooses for a counter attack — and so far he’s been successfully raining hellfire on our heads — he’ll get stuck. Half a minute later, he does. A barrier does nothing against this type of glyphs. Glad to know. The ranged fighters of our group concentrate on him while Cas jogs closer.

His barrier thins under our combined assault, but it’s a slow process. His robe hangs on him like a potato sack on a scarecrow, but what he lacks in bulk, the elf’s got an overabundance in magical power. A pity he couldn’t be reasoned with. Four against one? With these odds, I don’t understand why he doesn’t surrender.

The barrier pops a moment before the glyph’s hold breaks. I curse and toss a fireball his way just as the elf teleports to the other side of the cave.

“Fucking die already!”

It goes in this vein for some time, but in the end, we win by the sheer number. The man runs out of mana right after I do, but Solas is still going, allowing Varric to finally pin the mage with a bolt through a foot. Cas cuts him down.

She wipes the blood off her sword and sheathes the weapon with a sharp _shtink_ , decisive and final. “With the apostates dead, the refugees should be safer on the King’s Road.”

“Hear, hear,” I mutter. Untold dangers plague the land — demons, bandits, giant bears, whatever else have you — but at least the majority of the main opposing factions are out of commission. For good.

I slump near a wall to catch my breath. My back hurts something awful. Were there stitches, I’d say I tore them, but with magical healing, who the hell knows what overexertion does to newly grown tissue.

The cave, homey and lived-in, now sports a fair amount of frost and scorch marks. Mounted on the walls mabari shaped lamps illuminate the area with green-blue flames, adding to the light of campfires. Some of the tents fell victim to the fight, others still stand but are worse for wear. All in all, I’d say this camp housed about forty to fifty people. Perhaps, we can salvage what’s left of their resources for the refugees.

In the farthest end of the cave two ancient Tevinter dragons frame a waterfall and, lo and behold, a lush, voluminous, green _bush_ of royal elfroot! I hurry to collect it and stumble over a staff lying next to its late owner. His head has rolled off to the other side of the body and stopped on the stump, and now his long grey hair and beard fan out in a crimson puddle. I look away.

The opaque, round focusing crystal, its surface carved into triangle shaped facets, seamlessly flows into the upper third of the staff. The material looks suspiciously like metal. I pick it up, and a surge of cold tingles my arm. My fingers slide over the grooves like into a skin-tight glove. The grip is ideal, no kidding, as if made for my hand.

“Hey, Solas” — the elf pauses rummaging in a chest ten feet ahead — “I found myself a new toy. Wanna have my previous one? It’s cool, too.”

He tilts his head, thinking the offer over. “I am amenable to this suggestion. Let me try it.”

After inspecting my now old staff, he pronounces it an adequate replacement, and I move toward my original goal. _Yo-ho-ho! A lot of a damn near-perfect quality of elfroot, come to daddy._

Groot joins us at the entrance of the cave. Squinting against the bright morning light, we have to decide where to go next. On the one hand, Solas found enough lyrium potions to drown a templar in, so we are covered. On the other —

“You still need time to heal,” Cas says when I suggest a stroll to Redcliffe.

“And the people need more healers. Or we do,” I point out, engaging in a staring contest with the Lady Seeker. Not that it’s a hardship — she has beautiful eyes, I might have mentioned. “No offence, Solas.”

“It is not my speciality,” Solas replies.

A parchment rustles, unfurling, and Varric says, “The distance from here to Redcliffe is about the same as to the Crossroads.”

Cas huffs. “Fine. Let us hope the mages there are willing to listen.”

Somehow, I find her words foreboding.

According to the map, we are fairly close to the Redcliffe Road. Wandering past the frozen tableau, we pass several boulders and through the thinning forest come onto a clearing. Four men in black sit around a campfire on bedrolls laid on bare earth. Three fellows are eating fried on sticks meat, grease shines on their lips and runs down their fingers; the last one is leaning on a chest, his head thrown back, eyes closed. If not for their uniform armour, they might have passed for refugees. The other detail that stands out in this idyllic picture of a picnic is a tall wheeled cage fit to house a dozen humanoids. It’s empty, but a dirty blanket and buttons scattered over the grimy floor speak loud and clear.

We get the drop on the men and send them to early graves — figuratively, of course, since nobody here seems to respect the plain, old ground burial — in a matter of minutes. I look at the bodies, then at my companions. Varric rifles through pockets, looking for a key to the chest.

“Is it just me, or are we awfully lucky today? I mean, no one’s injured so far.”

“Don’t worry, Shiny. You still have plenty of time until sundown to get mortally wounded,” Varric mutters, skimming a piece of parchment. “And here’s an unsigned order to patrol the area and keep the refugees away.”

Cas stalks over and jerks the note out of Varric’s hand. He lets go fast enough; otherwise, she’d rip it in half. “This is troubling,” she says, glaring at the text.

“Duh. I could have told you this the first time we fought their comrades. Any group scouting with the intent to kill anyone not in their organisation is bad news.” I pause and scratch my right horn. Tiny flakes cling to my glove. I brush them off. “Though I do wonder why none of them was anything like the berserker who refused to go down.”

Cas’ frown ceases to be aggressive and becomes contemplating. It’s all in the micro expressions and these fine lines between her brows. “It _is_ strange.”

Finding nothing else incriminating of wrongdoings against the people of Ferelden, we move on. The Redcliffe Road is about ten feet wide and completely deserted. Faded, tattered Fereldan banners — two red mabaris facing each other on a checkered white-yellow shield — hang on thin rods here and there, swaying in the wind. The windows of the rare huts standing on the sides of the road are boarded shut. Elfroot has taken over the gardens. It peeks out of the hard ground among fallen leaves and detritus.

“Hello,” I say, addressing a guard in leather armour who strolls in front of a closed gate. “Is this by any chance the Redcliffe village?”

The guard stops, asserts our group through narrowed eyes. Her right hand grasps the hilt of a sword resting in an unadorned scabbard at her hip. “The village is off limits.”

“Well, I _can_ see the portcullis, but is there any way for us to go inside? I’ve been injured, and my wound’s paining me very-very much.” I sag and lean most of my weight on my staff, plunging its sharp end deeper into the earth. “So you see, I’m in dire need of help, and I hear there’s a healer in Redcliffe.”

Nothing in her demeanour changes, no softening or even a hint of sympathy to my plight. In the same hostile tone of voice, the guard says, “With the fighting between the templars and mages, we can’t take the risk of you belonging to either faction. The village is closed until further notice.”

 _Yes, I’m a tin can in disguise, and my staff is just a prop. Of course. And Varric just didn’t eat his green during childhood._ Suppressing a snort, I pull on the saddest face in my repertoire. Cas steps forward, drawing the attention to herself.

“We are with the Inquisition.”

“Yeah?” The guard straightens her shoulders and puffs out her chest. “Prove it, then.”

Cas’ lips tighten — the only outward sign of irritation I detect. “This woman is the Herald of Andraste. Surely, your superiors will not be happy you denied her medical assistance.”

“And how do I know she’s really her and not a random Qunari mercenary?”

Cas spits the words, “She is a Vashoth,” and clenches her jaw. More tooth enamel lost. Joy. “She is the only person in all Thedas who can close the rifts.”

The guard crosses her arms. “And how do I know you aren’t lying?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, though going by their glances, both women hear me just fine. I raise my voice to its regular level. “How many people are running around with glowing hands?” I wave my flashlight and with a thought — _Lumos_ — it flashes green. “Is it proof enough?”

The guard’s eyes widen as her gaze jumps from my face to the light shining through my glove and back. “Still can’t let you in,” she says with a smidgen of regret. “I can’t disobey my orders.”

“Can you at least call for a healer to meet us here?” Cas wonders.

“I…” She hesitates. Casually, I shift and give her a moment to take in the sight of the shredded, coarse with dried blood part of my coat and stains on my shirt where the bandages got soaked through. The guard caves. “I can do that. Wait here.” Warning not to do anything stupid or else with a glare — as if she’d be a match for the four of us, ha! — she jogs to the gate and shouts for Tomas to ‘get your arse here. _Now_.’

“That went better than I expected,” Cas murmurs.

“You thought she’d turn us around even with the glaringly obvious proof of the Herald’s heraldness?” Varric asks from behind the Seeker. I bet he has a great view, especially at his height. Come to think of it, that might be the reason he’s keeping to the rear.

“I did.”

“And for that scenario, I had a backup plan,” I say.

“Oh?” Cas says.

“Um-hum.” I nod, watching as a red-faced youth in plate armour tramps up to the gate and a whispered discussion commences. “Scale the wall. Or, failing that, the rock formation on its left.”

Cas sighs. “Herald…”

“What? A little ice to form footholds or, better yet, a ladder, and I’d be golden.”

“To invade Redcliffe would be impolitic—” Solas starts, and Varric cuts in.

“Not to mention in a village choke-full of jumpy mages they’d notice outsiders right away.”

“—Although your idea of using ice magic in such a way has merit,” Solas finishes.

I do agree with them, but— “Sneaking around would be so much fun!”

Cas directs a weighty stare at my horns. “Not with your distinct appearance, it would not.”

“Eh, details.”

The rumble of the portcullis sliding halfway up grabs our attention. A blonde elven woman ducks under the lattice.

Her eyes flit from one person to another, not pausing for longer than a moment. “Hello.” She swallows. “What can I do for you?” Her clear, unblemished skin and lack of wrinkles put her in her twenties. The severe top knot bun and the cut of her dress as if specifically designed to take her seriously counteract her youthful appearance. A pity, her nervous state ruins the resulting impression of competence.

I give her my most winning smile. “It’s what we can do for you that’s the question. The refugees at the Crossroads need a healer, and we — that’s the Inquisition — are offering you the job. You get a place to stay, all the necessary supplies, _and_ we pay well.” Over my shoulder, I add, “Right, Cas?”

With the gravest expression I’ve seen on her so far, Cas nods.

The woman frowns. “I’m not opposed to this, but if I go to the Crossroads, who are going to ensure my safety?” Her left hand flits above her hip like a startled bird. “I doubt the refugees would risk their lives for a mere ‘knife-ear’ when the templars attack. Why should I risk my life for them?”

I’m getting tired of people’s attitude here. Isn’t it common sense to help out the person who can pull you from the brink of death and cure the itch you’ve got after — _ahem_ — certain unspecified indiscretions?

“First of all, you have a right to refuse treatment to any asshole who refers to you by a derogatory term. Anyone has a problem with it, send them to me, ‘the Herald of Andraste.’ I’ll set them straight. Or bend out of shape, depending on perspective.” Varric snorts. I ignore him. “As to your safety, we’ve mopped up the instigators of hostilities in the area, so it should be relatively safe. The Inquisition also stationed a garrison at the Crossroads. Even if you don’t agree to become a part of it, which, mind you, I personally highly recommend because, religion aside, we are awesome, you’ll be under the protection of our soldiers.”

The healer links her hands, glances at Groot, and does a double-take. Don’t know what’s so unusual about him. My pet sylvan has buried its roots in the hard soil on the side of the road beside a pine and, for once, behaves like a tree, staying put.

“So?” I prompt.

“It’s an interesting offer.” The healer peeks at Solas and something in his stance convinces her of my words. “All right. It might be safer there, anyway. Just give me a moment to gather my things, and I’ll see you there.” She turns to go, but Cas’ request stops her.

“Can you take a look at the Herald?”

I wave a hand. “Nah, it’s not urgent. We’re going in the same direction, so we’ll wait till you are ready.”

“Herald,” Cas says, “I know you are in pain. You’ve been limping for the last half a mile.”

Facing her, I raise an eyebrow. “Nothing to do about it without painkillers.” And add to the still nameless healer, “Please, bring it if you have any.”

Saying, “Of course,” she shoots Groot another look and swiftly departs. The guard, standing next to the portcullis, gives me a stink-eye. Behind her back, the heavy metal gate trundles down, cutting off the way in.

I shrug and turn away. Not my fault the human part of Redcliffe villagers treat people like shit. With nothing to do, I meander to the clearing to the left of the road and plop onto a bench.

“So,” Varric says, joining me, “now that we have a healer for the refugees, will you ask Amell to join us on our great adventures?” He shrugs off his backpack, finds a waterskin, gulps three long drinks.

I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

A few drops of water fall onto his chin as he pulls the container away to stopper it. He licks the moister off his lips. “That’s all I ask.”

It takes a while for the healer to return. We pass the time discussing inconsequential things under the watchful gaze of the guard. Behind the stone wall, a winch turns, coiling ungreased chains for the third time. Steeling my ears for the grating sound the portcullis’ about to make, I stand up. “Back to the road! Adventures await.”

“I didn’t think you’d wait for me,” the healer says upon seeing us. “Thank you.” She’s donned a thick grey cloak and a backpack, patched with colourful strips of cloth. In the crook of her arm hangs a large wicker basket. The bitter, sharp smells of herbs carry even through the lid.

“What’s your name?”

“Shanril,” she murmurs.

“Nice to meet you.” Smiling, I offer her a hand to shake. Her grip is light. I introduce my companions: “Cassandra, Varric, Solas.” As we walk past, my sylvan uproots itself and takes its place at the rear. “Groot. Everyone except the tree is awesome and deadly. Groot is like a fluffy puppy.”

The guard’s laser sharp gaze is burning a hole in my back. The road curves, blocking her line of sight, and I sigh. Rumours are about to get wild in Redcliffe.

“Cool walking stick,” I say a hundred steps later, pointing with my chin at Shanril’s staff. Plain and lacking a focusing crystal, at a glance, it is a simple piece of wood. The weave of the branches closer to the top, however, is too deliberate to be natural. Kinda feels like what a druid would use.

Shanril’s back stiffens. Her heartbeat skyrockets, head dips until her chin is halfway to connecting with her neck.

“I figured you didn’t want to advertise your being a mage.” I shrug with one shoulder. “Not gonna out you or anything.”

She glances at me, then at the rest of the group, looks ahead. “My father was Dalish. This staff was his.”

“Was he the one who taught you the art of healing?” Solas asks.

“The magical kind. The rest I’ve learnt from my mother,” she says, eyes darting to Cas, “before the templars mistook her for a mage and ran her through. Father tried to save her, so they killed him too.” Her voice is level, free of any emotions.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. “You will be safe with the Inquisition. You do not need to hide your abilities anymore.”

“I’ve lived my whole life terrified of templars.” Shanril's tone is blatantly sarcastic. _She does have a backbone. Good for her._ “Forgive me if it’s hard to put that fear aside.”

Solas tilt his head to the side. “Why didn’t you join the rebel mages at Redcliffe? They would have welcomed you into their ranks.”

Shanril lifts her chin. “My trade is making people better, not hurting them. I don’t wish to fight.”

“Awesome!” I clap. The sound is startlingly loud. “Now when we are sufficiently far from any witnesses, would you mind checking my insides?”

“The Herald was injured fighting demons,” Solas explains as we stop. “I’ve done what I can, but healing was never my primary object of study.”

A blue glow suffuses Shanril’s hands, seeps into my chest. Tastes like a mountain brook. _Oh, look, gustatory hallucinations!_

Her pupils contract, focus goes inward. “The lung tissue is damaged, but not too badly.” More energy pours into me. It tingles on the inside. Shanril’s eyebrows draw closer in concentration, and then the light show stops. She relaxes. “All done.”

I breath full lungfuls, and nothing hurts. _Fantastic!_ “Thank you.”

Her heart rate slows. She meets my gaze and doesn’t drop it. “There’s nothing I can do about the scars, though. Too much time passed. I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine.” I grin. “At least this time, I know where I got them.”

Varric pats my wrist. “And for all the scars you don’t remember getting, you can create epic origin stories.”

“Ha! I can always do it regardless of the holes in my memory.”

* * *

At the Crossroads, we split up. Cas takes Shanril to Corporal Vale while Varric hauls all our sellable goods to the merchants. Solas and I head for the infirmary, the rounded building beside which I met Mother Giselle. Most of the sick and dying from our first visit have moved on — either to a better world or to their homes, tents, or stations.

Inside, a strong coppery smell mixed with the bitterness of herbs overlays the odours of sweat, various bodily fluids, and — my favourite — the sickly-sweet undertone of spoilt meat. The door opens into the healers’ area: a row of beds to the right, workstations with books, beakers, vials… _all kinds_ of alchemical stuff to the left. Farther in, three men rest on cots to one side of the main room that constitutes the healing chamber. At the far end, carmine spotted sheets cover five bodies lying on similar cots. Explains the smell.

The sound of a feather scribbling on parchment stops, and Keith glances up from a leather-bound journal; the other mage currently present continues grinding elfroot into a paste without so much as a twitch.

“Herald,” Keith says, getting up from his table. His keen gaze runs over my body, noting rips and cuts in my clothes. In contrast, his duds are pristine. He frowns. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Everything all right?”

“Yeah. Already patched up. We’ve brought another healer into the fold. Cas will deliver her later. Chances are, you’ll move on soonish.”

Keith’s face smoothes, hiding any emotions better than a porcelain mask. I bet he learned to do it in the Circle. He shrugs. “As you can see, there’s not much to do at the moment.”

“So you don't mind if Solas” — I point at the elf — “borrows a… what was it? Reagent?”

“Distillation Agent,” Solas says.

“Yeah, that and whatever equipment he needs to create a potion?”

Keith glances at the unoccupied workstations and says, voice dry as a years old rusk, “I wouldn’t dream of obstructing the work of a colleague.”

Having not made much progress past the entrance, I lean on the wall nearby and catch a current of air seeping in through the cracks between the window panes and frame.

Since the Crossroads are packed and there’s no room to spit at in Haven, Corporal Vale directed Keith’s group to an abandoned farmhouse down the north-west road, a short walk away from the village.

“How’re the kids?”

“Better.” Keith rests against the table, its edge digs into his hip. “Living in a house with a roof and a hearth does wonders for keeping the colds at bay. And staying in a place so close to the soldiers has lessened the fear of being killed by the templars.” He drums erratic rhythm on his thigh. “It’s not ideal — not enough beds to go around — but we can’t complain.”

“Mm. We offed all rogue tin cans we found. Should be safer this way.”

“We are all grateful to the Inquisition,” Keith says. His left hand runs over the dark brown leather of his new coat. “Sol’s at the farm full time and I usually return before nightfall, so I’m not too worried about our safety.” His features soften when he says that name. I doubt he knows.

Out of the corner of my right eye, I see Solas open a vial and take a sniff. Apparently, its content meets his standard since he pours it into a boiling glass, adds several drops of pungent yellowish liquid and a pinch of black powder, and sets it on a burner. A flick of his fingers sends a flame surging under the glass.

A fly buzzes by. Strange. Don’t they hibernate or hide in winter? Two contradicting thoughts duke it out in my mind as I remember all the insects I hear. Keith shifts, distracting me before the fisticuff reaches a conclusion.

“Oh, by the way, would you mind looking after my tree?”

“Your tree?”

“Uh-hum, my pet sylvan.” His eyes widen to rival an anime character’s. “Don’t worry, I’ve told it to stay outside and behave as a regular plum would. No walking around until I’m back.”

“Your… pet sylvan,” Keith repeats like he needs it to comprehend what I’m saying.

“Is there something wrong with me having a pet?” I arch an eyebrow.

He shakes his head. A blond strand falls onto his nose. He pushes it behind his left ear. “No. A pet sylvan is _absolutely fine_.”

My arms cross over my chest. Huh. “It’s a legitimate choice of a companion.” _And why do I need to justify it?_

“Until its spirit attempts to possess you,” Keith says.

“Nah.” I wave a hand, dismissing the notion. “It wouldn’t do that. Just make sure nobody bothers Groot or tries to cut it down, okay?”

He sighs. The corners of his mouth point downwards as — I imagine — he regrets all his recent choices. “All right, I will see to it.” A low moan startles Keith onto his feet, and with a nod, he goes to his patient, muttering, “Maker, what is my life?..”

The liquid on the burner sizzles. Solas extinguishes the fire and pours his concoction into a dark glass vial, quickly stoppering it.

“All done,” he says, looking up.

We tumble outside. The smell of the dead was getting to me in a _really_ bad way, and now my appetite is irrevocably lost.

To distract myself, I ask, “What do you think of him?”

“The healer?”

I step on a stone, driving it deeper into the packed dirt. Whispers of ‘the Herald’ trail after us like toilet paper stuck to a boot sole. “Yeah, Keith.”

Solas takes a moment to reply. “He seems competent. From what I glimpsed in his journal, he is eloquent and well educated.”

“Worth picking up for a lap across Ferelden?”

“Perhaps.” He gives my back a pointed look. “We do need a regular healer in our company. But I have a feeling he might be reluctant to separate from his partner and their charges.”

I sigh. “That’s what I thought,” I say as we reach the elderly elf standing beside a palisade fencing a small pond. A brief conversation to let him know we haven’t found his son yet but procured the correct potion later — his _‘thank the Maker or whoever’_ makes me crack a smile — and finally, we arrive at the other end of the village and the only drinking establishment in the area, the Prancing Pony.

Opening the door, I wade into too-warm, slightly moist air. The hum of loud voices crashes over me like a tidal wave. I drown in the smell of potent liquor, both fresh and going stale, and the distinct bouquet of a cramped, well-heated room packed with bodies in winter gear. Sourness surges to the back of my tongue. I scrunch up my nose. Good thing my appetite hasn’t returned.

We navigate between long, rough-hewn tables to the bar counter where Bianca’s grip flashes before a stumbling human blocks her from view. Despite the cheerful mood prevalent in the tavern, Varric’s expression is fit for a funeral.

“Someone spat in your ale?” I ask, elbowing a burly, ruddy-faced fellow and glaring at him until he takes the hint and arranges room beside my favourite dwarf.

Glancing at me, Varric makes a visible effort to pull himself together. “Don’t you know, it’s not an ale if nobody spat in it?”

“Is that what you Kirkwallers think?” I shake my head in mock disappointment. “No wonder you mistake ‘moonshine’ for proper booze.”

He leans over the counter, putting more weight onto his forearms. “Hey now, there’s no need to flaunt your lack of taste while in this fine drinking establishment. The reputation of the Inquisition is at stake here.”

A human in a heavy coat, its matted fur shines with grease at the elbows and cuffs, staggers into our direction, swaying like the floor is about to buckle and run away. I grimace. The knuckles of Varric’s hand gripping the handle of his tankard have gone white.

“You know what, why don’t we take this party outside? Nature is calling — fresh air, sunshine, birds singing, and all that jazz. We can even get food from a vendor!” I add, warming up to the idea.

“What, you’ve noticed your pointed ears and suddenly feel like a Dalish?” Varric turns. A rustle of crumpling parchment attracts my attention to his right hand as it surreptitiously stuffs a letter into his pocket. “Solas, back me up here. Why don’t we stay inside instead and share a pint?”

“I’m afraid, in this case,” Solas says, eyeing a mug of dubious cleanness the bartender’s filling up with beer the colour of piss with a faint expression of distaste, his upper lip curling up, “I am with the Herald.”

“Fine, fine,” Varric grumbles. “Let me finish my drink and we’ll go reunite with nature. Just don’t expect me to frolic in the trees next.”

I clap him on the left shoulder, mindful of my strength. Don’t want him to spill his swill. “That’s the spirit!”

About half an hour later, Cas finds us sitting on the stairs near a miniature waterfall. The cold of the stone seeps through my pants, chilling my ass, but the murmur of water overlaps the gossiping villagers, allowing me to tune them out. It evens out.

Cas doesn’t come alone.

“What’s with the army?” That might be an exaggeration, but a troop of archers and warriors is definitely more than what I’m used to taking into battle.

“We are closing the rift in the Forannan Ravine,” Cas says, “and I am not willing to risk you almost dying again.”

Standing a step behind her, Keith offers me a jaunty wave.

I shrug. It's not like I mind the reinforcement _or_ a healer’s presence. “Fair enough.”

The march to the ravine is swift. With the addition of thirty people, dealing with the demons is a child’s play. I stay with the archers and cast barriers in all directions. As soon as there’s an opening between the waves of demonic forces, I mend the tear.

Afterwards, the soldiers go to the mages’ cave to pick up tents and any other equipment they can find to supply the refugees. They did the same after we got rid of the templars — picked the encampment clean of anything not nailed to the floor and remotely useful. No idea where Keith disappears. One moment he is here, tending to the minor to moderate scraps and wounds of our men, the next he’s nowhere in sight. Seriously, I swear he has a rogue’s trick in his arsenal. I’m sure I’d notice him teleporting.

“So where to?” I ask, surveying the battlefield. Aside from scorch marks, nothing speaks of a recent skirmish.

Cas consults the map. “We are not far from Redcliffe farms. Perhaps, it’s time to visit Horsemaster Dennet.”

We cross the river hopping on stones at the shallowest point. On this side, the shore is rich in spindleweed, so of course, I pause to collect it.

“Varric,” Cas says as I squat beside an exceptionally plump specimen, “have you heard from any of your Kirkwall associates?”

“You're asking me?” Varric’s voice bristles with hostility. “So you don't read my letters?” The image of a crinkled parchment springs to my mind.

“You are no longer my prisoner, much as you like to act like it.”

“Yet I still get all the suspicion.”

Cas shifts her weight from one foot to another. The squelching of mud accompanies the usual clangs of metallic bits of her getup. “I am not without sympathy, especially given recent events.”

“Why, Seeker, I would never accuse you of having sympathy! By the way, I tend to refer to my ‘associates’ as ‘friends.’ Maybe you're not familiar with the concept.”

I bite the inside of my lower lip. I’m willing to cut him slack on the assumption of bad new, but that’s an unfair blow.

Cas sighs. And now they are back to aggressive bickering and silent glaring. Great. I catch Solas’ eyes and keep my mouth shut on the matter of received correspondence. If he wanted, Varric would have mentioned it. Speaking of—

“Hey, Cas” — I raise my voice to compensate for addressing another spindleweed — “any news from Haven?”

“Not yet, but I expect to hear from Leliana soon. I’ve sent her an update on our progress, though.”

“Tell me if I get mail, all right?”

Judging by the sounds, Cas straightens her shoulders. “Of course, Herald. You needn’t doubt me.” Ah, indignation.

“Okay,” I say calmly. “I won’t.”

The Redcliffe farms sprawl between two hills. The only noises I hear are huffs and snorts of horses and deeper tones of buffalos, the hooves hitting the earth. The peaceful, authentic like pleather appearance of this place sets my nerves on edge.

The first house we see stands abandoned: fallen leaves carpet the grimy floor, visible behind a door left ajar. Farther away, a man works on fixing a wheel of his cart. On the other side of the road, a young woman leads a brown mare through the paces. All this is disturbingly tranquil.

Oh, and there’s the explanation hanging in all its menacing, glowy glory behind the last row of buildings. Not close enough to be worrisome, but a rift is a rift. We deal with it first. The tear itself is small and feels like a barely cracked doorway. Perhaps, that’s why the demons that come through are the least powerful in the hierarchy — a couple of shades and lesser terrors who, once I cast a barrier, fail to induce even a shiver of unease. Ice and lightning are the way to go.

Horsemaster Dennet is a bald, dark skinned man in possession of an impressive bushy moustache gone white with age. He lives with his wife, Elaina, in a cosy house and, of course, doesn’t burn with desire to release his horses out into the dangerous world.

“So you are the Inquisition, eh?” he says upon seeing us and being forced to cant his head back to look me in the face. “Hear you’re trying to bring the order back. It’s high time someone did.” He opens the door wider and walks backwards. We file in.

“Never thought it’d be one of you big brutes, though,” he continues.

“Oh, you know what they say — it takes all kinds.” With a half-formed smile, I gesture to my rag-tag team. Come to think of it, we do represent all sentient races of Thedas.

Dennet snorts and introduces himself.

“I hear the Inquisition is looking for mounts.”

“News must travel really fast here. A couple of days ago, scout Harding said nobody heard from you in a while. She was pretty worried.”

“Lace.” Dennet smiles, his no-nonsense attitude momentarily softening. “A born rider if ever I saw one. A farmhand returned just ahead of you, snuck past the rift while you were closing it. Thanks for that, by the way.”

I lower my eyes. “Simply doing my job, ser.” Look up. As in, _less down_. “So what about the horses?”

Dennet’s tone changes. Back to business. “I can’t send a hundred of the finest mounts in Ferelden like you’d send a letter. Every bandit from here to Haven will be on them like flies on crap. You’ll have them once I know they won’t end up as a cold winter’s breakfast.”

“We’ve dealt with the mages and the templars in the area.” I’ve said it so many times, I can as well be a broken record. “Plus, we’ve killed a demon making the wolves go crazy. It’s as safe as it gets.” I shrug. “Besides, your horses won’t run all the way to our home base by themselves, would they? The Inquisition will provide an armed escort.”

“Hm.” The hair of his moustache rasps as Dennet rubs its left end between his calloused fingers. “All right, then. Talk to Bron, he’s in charge of my guards. See what he thinks of security here, and I’ll get the mounts ready for when your people arrive.”

Bron, a human beefcake who we find in a barn full of weapons and smithing tools, wants us to build watchtowers: the refugees staying here will have advanced warning in case bandits or raiders attack. An excellent idea.

“Just mark where you want ’em on the map” — as I speak, Cas helpfully provides him with our copy — “and we will see it done.”

Bron does so, laying the map on a wooden table and bending over it. I tilt my head and admire his form. Working the farms did wonders for his shape. The muscles of his arms glisten with sweat. Bits of hay stick to the bottoms of the leather pants that hug his rear and legs like an ardent lover.

“Herald,” Cas hisses.

I raise one eyebrow to indicate I heard her, not looking away. She tugs my coat sleeve, but Bron finishes before she does anything else. A lopsided grin stays on my face through farewells.

Outside, Cas gifts me with her most disapproving expression. It doesn't bother me any.

“’T was a great view.”

She crosses her arms. “It was inappropriate.”

“I figured if he didn’t want me to ogle his ass, all he needed to do was move to the side. Besides, he gave my boobs a decent leer.” I shrug. “Fair’s fair.”

“He did?”

“Yes, Seeker,” Varric says, “he most certainly did.”

Cas harrumphs, but her ire changes direction. She glares at the barn as if contemplating going back and giving Bron a thrashing.

I chuckle and stir her away with an arm across her shoulders. “Relax, gorgeous. My virtue is as safe as can be.”

Sunlight gleams on the two nailheads sticking out a piece of parchment pinned to the message board on the side of the road. The edges of the sheet curl inward, ink blots spatter the jumping lines of text. Long story short, it asks to return a druffalo named _Druffy_ to her owner.

“At least, we know where this animal is,” Varric says, making a face at the penmanship like it stabs him in the eyes with every crooked letter.

Only, when we reach the gully, it’s not there anymore.

“Hm. Where did she go?” I mutter, trying to make sense of the indents left in the dirt. A creature of such size makes an impact, all right. Clangs of metal and huffs of breath that sound like a large and majorly irritated druffalo would make come from farther ahead. My head shoots up.

“Into the Witchwood!” Hefting my staff like a flag, I take off at a jog.

I burst into the clearance with the creepy Cthulhu altar, Cas at my heels, and shout, “Hands off the merchandise!”

The tin cans surrounding the druffalo start. The templar tugging Druffy along actually releases her hide. In her reluctance to fall in line behind the kidnappers, Druffy’s dug up a pile of dirt. As she backs away, clumps of dark soil scatter from her hooves.

“To arms!” The quickest on the uptake man draws his sword.

On reflex, I cast a barrier. “Hey, where did you come from? I was sure we killed all of you fuckers already.”

The tin can stuffing snarls, coming at me with an overhead blow of his two-handed overcompensation. I sidestep. The blade grazes the side of my coat, leaving a long scratch behind. Eh, it’s unsalvageable at this point.

I turn and, at the periphery of my vision, spot Cas engaging two opponents at once. The last man, the one closest to Druffy resumes his futile attempts to get her moving. A whoosh of air, and he’s gurgling blood, a bolt sticking out of his throat. This observation takes only a second. It is, however, enough for my foe to seize the moment. My inattention costs me dearly.

The mana I’m gathering to introduce the tin can to the wonder of high voltage fizzles out as he casts a spell of his own: a stream of energy washes over me with the gentleness of sandpaper rubbing sunburned skin. My barrier ceases to exist. I shudder, but the templar hasn’t finished. He pushes the air with the palm of his left hand. Something intangible slams into me like an eighteen-wheeler. Feels like I’m hit with a void: all my magic — both mana and my connection to the Fade — is suddenly gone.

Until this moment, I haven’t noticed how natural it is. Now a mystical part of my body has gone dead. My legs weaken. I double over. My vision swims. The flashlight on my hand turns on, but the light spatters and dies like its batteries have run out of juice. Considering I’m cut off from its power source, the comparison is rather apt.

I plant my staff into the ground and lean on it to get upright, shake my head. _Wanna play it rough? Fine._ I grit my teeth. A slight ache in my jaw is nothing, just another thing to ignore. A new barrier sets over me a hair’s breadth away from the templar’s sword rushing at my face. It slides off. Thanks to the momentum, the tin can follows the skewed trajectory.

Wrenching it out of the earth, I clutch my staff like a pike and with a wordless shout rush at the fucker’s unprotected side. The blade strikes true, sliding beneath his ribs. My physical strength is nothing to sneeze on. The look on the templar’s mug — what’s visible through the visor of his helmet, anyway — is a sight to behold. He literally goes slack-jawed.

The moment of my triumph doesn’t last long. As the man sinks to his knees, Solas’ Fade fist pulling him off my staff, I do the same, the edges of my vision greying. A foul stench of ruptured intestines spills out of the wound along with gushing liquids. Bile rises in my throat. Everything whirls before my eyes.

I blink. Register a pressure just under my left elbow. Cas is kneeling, holding my arm. The templars she was fighting lie dead, a puddle of blood mixing between them.

“Take it easy,” Cas says. “The dizziness will pass in a moment.”

Moving my tongue is an effort worth a medal. “What about weakness?”

“That will go away, too.” She pries my fingers off the shaft of my staff, brings her waterskin to my lips. I take a few careful sips. The water tastes different. Dull somehow. All around, the colours seem washed-out, covered in a fine coating of dust. If that’s what it’s like for non-magical people, I don’t envy them. Screw shooting lightning out of my fingertips and setting things on fire with the power of my brain! _This_ is what magic is about — the layer of reality that creates its _realness_ for lack of a better word.

“This is your first Smite, I take it,” Varric murmurs.

“Did my flabbergasted expression give it away?”

“Might be.” He smiles. “I was more focused on your impressive display of will to look at your face. Few mages continue standing, let alone fight after a templar is through with them.” He pauses, scratches his chin. “Well, Hawke can, but that’s about it.”

“You know, while I’m flattered to be on the same level as Hawke, I’d have preferred to avoid this experience.”

“Can’t say that I blame you.”

“The effects will fade in time,” Solas says, briefly placing a hand on my shoulder in an unheard of show of support. “If it were in my power, this abhorrent practice wouldn’t even exist. How anyone can stand this perversion of nature is beyond me.”

Cas bristles like a startled porcupine. “Not all mages are good. The templars need a way to combat abominations—”

“Yeah, fat lot of good it does against maleficarum,” Varric says, crossing his arms, and Cas deflates.

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” I mumble. The three of them kind of crowd me, and while the attention is touching, I’d love to move on. “Wow, am I dying? What’s with your hovering and all.”

“Want me to kick you in the thigh?” Varric asks. Cas moves to physically block him, but I stop her, grabbing her arm and holding her in place.

“How about no?”

Varric raises his hands, palms up, and says more to Cas than me, “Just offering.”

“I’ll agree if you offer to kiss it better.”

“Bianca would be jealous.” He shakes his head with a hint of a smirk and pats me on the shoulder, repeating Solas’ gesture with more confidence and ease. “What doesn't kill you ends up dead, Shiny.”

The group disperses to do the usual post-battle loot and clean-up. Cas, the sweetheart, confiscates my crutch to scrub the blade. I think about standing aside and waiting for my head to clear, but a pouch attached to the belt of the fucker who Smote me is a too tempting sight: the knot strains to keep the opening of the bulging velvet together. Hobbling to the body, I hold my breath and pick it up, back away. Untie the strings. A glint of sunlight on a round rim tells me all I need to know.

We found him, the thief. The problem is — he didn’t have one ring. There are two fucking dozens, ranging from copper bands to ostentatious displays of opulence with gems and inscriptions, with silver and plain golden loops in between. Maybe this dickhead was going to propose and couldn’t decide on the right one for his partner, or he had a fetish. Might be pure greed, too. Whatever the reason, I’m glad he won’t kill another person for a cheap — or an expensive — trinket.

I tie the strings and stare at the pouch. Eventually, my mind clears enough that I’m not in danger of stumbling over nothing. Druffy, the epitome of apathy that she is, spent all this time two steps from the spot the templars left her. Luckily, Cas already dragged the corpse away from her hooves, or that would be creepy.

“Hi there, girl.” I walk to the druffalo, tugging my gloves off, and offer her a hand to sniff. Warm air puffs over my skin, reminding me of Handsome Jack. “Why don’t we bring you back to your human? He misses you, you know.”

Druffy lowers her head. Taking it as an invitation, I pet her nose, short coarse hair tickling my palm. Up close, she isn’t all that scary. Big? Yes. Capable of trampling me into the ground or impaling on her enormous horns? Absolutely. Scary? Naw. Just a lost pet who wanna go home.

“Herald?” Cas says, teleporting to my side between two heartbeats. “Do you want to wait here while Solas and Varric take the animal to the farms?”

I calculate the distance, and what little strength I have drains away. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

“We can sit beside the fire,” Cas offers.

“With the skeletons?” The mood I’m in, they’d be the perfect company in this desolate, grey world. “Sure.”

I pat Druffy one last time, and Solas takes my place, murmuring to her in elvhen. While he thinks I’m not looking, Varric throws a worried glance my way and frowns at Cas. His eyebrows perform a complicated dance. Cas nods, takes hold of my elbow.

“You know I’m not infirm, right?” I say as she draws me in the direction of the fire, leaving Varric, Solas, and Druffy to follow.

“Of course, you aren’t,” Cas agrees, setting a steady turtle pace. “We should enjoy a break while we can.”

I sit on the same bench as the last time we were here. The fire goes strong, the skeletons lie still, the birds chirp overhead. Everything seems the same but isn’t. Bright orange and yellow have faded to khaki and moccasin. Heat doesn’t warm. The very air tastes muted.

“Here.” Cas hands me an apple. Intellectually, I know it is dark red with a shiny, glossy rind. What my eyes see instead is a fruit Grinhilde gave Snow White sans the glamour.

“Thank you?” Without my meaning to, it becomes a question.

Cas’ lips curve into a slight smile. “Food always makes you feel better.”

“Thanks.” I force the corners of my mouth up and eat the fruit, faking appetite and enjoyment like a pro.

An interminable while later, familiar footsteps get closer.

“So that’s one good deed for the day done,” Varric says with a hint of a smirk on his lips and a truckload of concern in his eyes. “Where to now?”

“Crossroads?” I suggest, getting up. “We’re almost finished around here.”

“We still need to visit the Winterwatch Tower,” Cas says.

“The what?”

“It’s where the cult worshipping the rifts congregates,” she explains.

“Ah, yes.” I nod, barely moving my head, and we get going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for missing the promised deadline (end of August). The explanation is [here](http://afrokot-jl.tumblr.com/post/164875535674/about-two-weeks-of-august-went-down-the-drain-as). I hope this chapter was worth the wait. If you spot any mistakes, please point them out for me to shoot, execution style.
> 
> Are you interested in updates on the progress of next chapters? If yes, say so in a comment, and I'll post them on [Tumblr](http://afrokot-jl.tumblr.com) weekly/bi-weekly/with whatever frequency you prefer.


	7. Yet More Hinterlands

Like heavy blinds pulled up in a dark room, my connection to the Fade goes online. A trickle of mana comes through. The brightness and saturation crank up. And suddenly, I’m alive!

“Finally! I’m me again!” I summon fire onto my palm, extinguish it with a snap of my fingers, and break into a celebratory jig. “Whoo-hoo! I’m back, baby! I feel like all I’ve been doing lately is wallow in misery. Let’s find a villain and kick their ass!”

“I think you are about to get your wish granted, Shiny.” Varric gestures at a scout in the standard Inquisition garb — leather and cloth in different shades of green and a funny grey helmet — guarding the gate to the East Road. The expression on her face spells trouble. “She looks like she’s in need of your special brand of assistance.”

“Hi there.” I wave as we close the distance. “What’s going on?”

The scout takes in my horns, staff, torn and slightly bloody coat — strangely, Fereldan merchants don’t have a stock of Qunari-sized clothes on hand at all times. Why is that, I wonder — and salutes with a fist to her heart. “Recruit Belette, ser. An honour to meet you. There are bandits up ahead — or something, anyway. They barricaded the road,” she reports without prompting. “Watch yourself, Herald.”

“You don’t think they are bandits?” Cas asks, and I get an inkling we are talking about the comrades of _not-bandits._ My hands itch with the urge to cast something destructive. I go up on my toes, roll back onto my heels.

Belette crosses her arms over her chest; her fingers sneak up to fidget with a strap of her coat below the collar. “They don’t act like it — show themselves too early, don’t care about loot. It’s like all they want is to drive travellers off the road.”

“Anything else?” Cas says.

“Several groups, some with bows. They are better armed and have better armour than most around here. Watch your flank — they don’t take prisoners.”

Though my lips attempt to split into a wide grin, I school my face into seriousness. “Thanks for the heads-up, Belette. We’ll look into it.”

The East Road lies between a hill on the left and a mountain range on the right. Sparse pine trees and an abundance of rocks of all sizes fill the valley. The first group of outlaws stacked boxes and crates at the curve of the road, so we don’t see them until we are upon them. The lack of sight, however, means nothing when you have my range of hearing.

Gesturing for a stop, I pause near the boulder preceding the curve and tilt my head. “Four of them,” I whisper and cast a barrier. Magic comes at my call, surging to my fingertips faster than light, sings in my veins like it missed me too. Exhilaration floods me to the points of my horns, and finally, I smile without restraint. A deranged expression, no doubt.

Varric disappears in a cloud of smoke. The rest of us charge ahead, spells or sword at the ready.

One archer falls before he can loose his nocked arrow, three of Varric’s bolts sticking out of his body. I take care of another, freezing him in place and adding lightning for good measure. The two remaining not-bandits, as their uniform black armour confirms, warriors with swords and shields, gang-up on Cas. She holds her own just fine, parrying and taking blows on her shield when she can’t move away. She doesn’t actually need our help, but teamwork cuts down the time in direct proportion to our numbers. Without communicating, Solas and I cast a Winter’s Grasp—Fade fist combo on the left not-bandit. A bolt pierces the sword arm of the right. In under a minute, both men are dead.

Manoeuvring between stacked crates, I go to the three pallets lying around a campfire and rifle through backpacks. Trinkets, spare clothes, jerky… A letter.

“This says —” I wave the parchment in the air “— they are ‘paid to keep things quiet and trade away from the East Road.’ Curious, isn’t it?”

“The stuff for a mystery novel,” Varric agrees.

I don’t like it a bit.

“According to my research,” Solas says as we trudge down the road, “the ancient elves put wards around here. Perhaps, we can find the artefacts that we can use to straighten the Veil.”

I nod. “That would be useful.”

A few minutes later, a crumbling stone arch towers several hundred feet ahead to our right. Spells flash with purple light: an elven mage is battling a shade in front of it. We speed up and, like any concerned citizen should, help send them into the Void.

“Thank you for your assistance,” the mage says as we join her on the paving stones forming a loose approximation of a staircase. Three thick black wavy lines cross her forehead, coming down the sides of her face. A vallaslin dedicated to Mythal, my mind suggests. The edges of the lines are blurred and uneven as if the tattoo artist was drunk. To be honest, they don’t look much like a permanent addition to her skin. More like she sketched them with an oily eyeliner. Her dun hair is more grey than brown but coupled with the lack of wrinkles, I gather it’s her natural colour. Then again, I can’t remember ever seeing a wrinkled female elf. They all must age well.

“I’m Mihris,” the mage says, addressing me in a respectful tone while ignoring the rest of my team. “By your weapons, I see you come ready for battle. Perhaps we face a common enemy in these demons.”

I snort. “As far as I know, the whole damn world faces a common enemy in these demons.”

She changes the subject. “I’ve heard of elven artefacts that measure the Veil.”

“Funny. So has Solas.” I indicate him with a nod.

Barely sparing a glance brimming with disdain at my bare-faced elven companion, Mihris continues, “They may tell us where the new tears will appear. I was not expecting so many demons, however. One of the artefacts must be nearby. Will you help me reach it?”

“This morning I had no idea they exist. Now you are the second person to bring them up in the last ten minutes. Isn’t it interesting?” I raise an eyebrow. “We’re looking for the same thing. You can join us” — pausing, I turn to my companions — “if nobody has objections.” Nobody does. We start up the stairs toward what looks like a temple. Two pillars framing the entrance have collapsed and now prevent anyone from getting inside. Huh. I’m about to explore one of those scattered around Thedas ruins I heard about. Cool!

“So tell us about yourself,” I say, out of politeness mixed with curiosity.

“I was — am — the First of Clan Virnehn,” Mihris says. “I left in service of my clan and saw that great rift on my journey.” An interesting slip of the tongue. To pry or not to pry? Ah, well. Not my division. “I know more of magic and the Veil than any shemlen, so I hoped to help.”

“Ma harel, dalen.” Solas’ grave tone of voice raises the hair on the back of my neck. Mihris stiffens. I make a wild stab at a guess: he didn’t thank her.

Near the entrance, he steps forward and lifts his arms. A greenish-blue glow suffuses his hands, expands outwards to the pillars. Like a conductor leading an orchestra, Solas directs the broken pieces to their correct positions. This isn’t a spell. I take a moment to stare at him like a simpleton. The ease with which he shapes raw magic and bends it to his will is incredible.

He notices the attention and, tilting his head to the right, motions at the temple. “Shall we?”

I swallow. I wanna be like Solas in terms of magic and a badass mofo like Cas on a battlefield when I grow up. “Um-hum.”

A shade and a wraith loiter at the far side of the darkened… hm… let’s call it a lobby. We, mages, dispatch them with a quick volley of spells from the doorway. Primal school — ice, lightning, and stone fists — for the win. Another wraith ascends the stairs on the left, splashing the small room with sickly-green patches of colour, just as we step inside. Solas and Varric attack at the same time, taking care of it in the span of a few moments.

The outside light barely reaches halfway in, but I make out a torch in a sconce mounted near the staircase. Something compels me to cast a spell I have no idea I know until the moment it takes form. I shiver.

“That’s not normal fire.” Varric’s eyebrows hit his hairline as he stares at the flames the same colour as the magic that moved the pillars.

“ _Veilfire_ ,” Solas voices my thought. “I have heard of it before. It is a form of sympathetic magic, a memory of a fire that burns on this side of the Fade when the Veil is thin.” Regarding me through eyes gone dark in the low lighting, Solas says, “It’s interesting that you should know it when so many don’t.”

I shrug with one shoulder and pick up the torch. “‘Interesting’ is one way to put it.”

“So we are taking the magical fire with us?” Varric’s tone hints at his disapproval like a raging inferno on a kitchen stove implies a bit of a problem.

“Whyever not?” I smile. “It’s pretty.”

There’s a sculpture of a man — from the waist up — in an alcove at the end of the room. Headless, he holds a bull’s head, his outstretched arms raised high.

“A Minotaur?” I bring the torch closer. Light reflects on the naked torso, licking his abs and pectorals with blue-green tongues. Proportions aside, the muscles are rather realistic. Streaks of something dark — blood? — bisect both sides of the bull’s face from eyes to chin: permanent tears. An icy, invisible hand caresses the skin of my back. “And here I thought it’s an elvhen temple.”

“It is,” Solas confirms. His voice is quiet and flat. I look around. Banners with tattered edges lined with silver threads hang from the rafters. I scrutinise a depiction of a… dragon? Griffon? Some kind of bird of prey with two heads breathing fire on a black field. Search my patchy memory, but alas, nada. Not that I expected to know its origin, but still. Disappointing.

A pile of skulls materialises before me as I reach for the candles clustering on the alcove’s stone border. The top tier scatters across the floor with a rattle. “Oops.”

Without turning, I feel several glares pushing at my shoulders like a physical weight and hear a sigh. Cas’, no doubt. I imagine she also looks heavenward, asking for patience. Fine, no candles. It’s not like we need them all that much.

The way ahead is treacherous with skulls abound, so I choose the left of the two symmetrical staircases and start to descent.

“Something is odd about these ruins, but I cannot determine what,” Solas says in the middle of the stairs that end with a balcony. Bones and shattered tiles crunch under our feet. Cobwebs cling to every corner. Tree roots crawled through a hole in the roof, opening a way for natural illumination and a light breeze that freshens dry, stale air.

Skirting broken pieces of rectangular pillars, I come to a staircase leading to the ground floor and a bunch of demons keeping vigil in front of the masterpiece of this temple — a tall sculpture of an enormous skull sitting on a trio of large skulls resting on a pedestal surrounded with regular-sized and likely previously belonging to actual people skulls. The main skull gapes in a wordless greeting. Oh, and there are identical sculptures of a vaguely humanoid shape in a cloak that has a skull on its shoulders and is leaning on a sword. Two of these sculptures hold up the last intact pillars.

“Skulls, skulls, skulls…” I mutter, surveying the chamber and seeing — you guessed it — more skulls. “What the fuck? Someone had an obsession?”

Before anyone can answer — if they were going to, that is — a pair of shades glides from the darkest corner. Coming into and disappearing from view, they move between yet more ruined pillars. All right, back to business. A barrier springs over me.

“Thanks, Solas.”

I drop the torch and go for my staff, cast a lightning chain. It hits the right shade and jumps to a wraith trailing unnoticed in its wake. The battle commences with spells whooshing through the air. Cas charges another wraith. Varric does his thing. A thump sounds to my left.

“Watch it, flat ear,” Mihris’ irritated voice drifts from the same direction. Guess Solas accidentally introduced his staff to a part of her body.

I suppress a smirk — she earned it fair and square. “Mind your words or take a hike.”

Twirling my own weapon with a flourish, I freeze the last wraith for Cas to shutter, pick the torch up, and descend to the main floor. In the sudden absence of noise, the clicking of my heels on the granite sounds like gunshots.

A rust coloured diagram consisting of a triangle, circles, dots, and different lines covers the better part of the floor underneath the hole in the roof. Whoever painted it — I sniff and grimace — in blood liked to work in good lighting.

“This place gets better and better, doesn’t it? The creep factor is up to eleven.” A dark spherical object sitting at the base of the main attraction blips on my magical radar when I get near. “Think that's it.”

Close to inaudible footsteps announce Solas’ arrival. He stops next to me, head to shoulder, and sends a tendril of magic toward the object. Rotating parts come into motion, and the artefact lights up, iridescent aura with predominantly rift-green and golden hues settling over it.

“Yes,” Solas says with an air of satisfaction about him, “the wards are helping to strengthen the Veil. This area should be safer for travellers now.”

“That should prove useful,” Mihris murmurs, wandering past.

Of course, I can’t tell the difference. All I can say is the artefact does _something_ , but whether it influences the Veil, powers up the lanterns, or shoots fireworks at night is up to debate. Good thing I’ve got an expert on hand.

“Excellent.” I pat Solas’ shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch, and I smile. “Time to loot!”

Dust and cobwebs cover rusted chests like dirty laundry every surface in a bachelor’s pad. I don’t bother with floor vases — skulls sit atop most of them, so I doubt I’d like their content. A lot of chests are empty though a few have rotten fabric with threads so old they might crumble into noting if I breathe on them wrong. The only valuable catch is five battered gold coins with a woman’s bust on one side and a dragon on the other. I don’t recognise them. Tevinter? The ’Vints have a dragon fetish, I remember. I pocket the coins anyway. If nothing else, they’ll do as souvenirs.

“Looks like the ancestor left something for me. Interesting.” Mihris crouches beside a casket with a splintered lid, smirking. As she gets up, a round disc on a thin silver chain dangles from her fingers. She looks at me, disregarding everyone else, as usual. “I believe our alliance has come to an end. Go in peace, stranger.”

“Ma halani, ma glandival,” Solas says in the same grave tone he addressed her before. “Vir enasalin.” His voice is deeper, lower when he speaks elvhen. Heat pools in my stomach. Damn, if he wasn't an elf… I sigh, for the first time ever regretting his slight constitution. He’s taller and broader in shoulders than anyone else I’ve met of his race, but that doesn't add to much. I prefer to bed partners I can't break with a careless move of my pinky.

Whatever his words mean, they cause Mihris to hesitate.

“I…” she trails off, glancing at the amulet and biting her lower lip. “Perhaps, you are right. Here, take it. Go with Mythal’s blessing.”

The trinket changes hands, and Solas inclines his head either in acknowledgement or in a simple farewell. I wave at her, but she’s already turned. Whatever.

Intending to follow Mihris’ example, I take a final sweep of the place. A hint of green glints on the wall to my right. The fluorescent paint gleams in the torchlight, matching its colour.

“The veilfire must be making it legible,” Solas says, following me to the drawing.

We all study it in silence. Varric scratches his chin. “Looks like a rune schematic.”

I squint, but the design fails to become meaningful. No idea how six wavy lines that resemble a stylised flame could be translated into something comprehensible. On the other hand, I’m a noob at any schematics, not just runic. “Would be useful if we find someone who can work with this stuff.” I sigh. A matter for later consideration. “I know _I_ don't have anything to write with.”

Opening his backpack, Varric pulls a leather-bound journal and a pencil and sketches the symbol, and thus concludes our business in the temple.

I stop to cut an elfroot on the way to the East Road and spot a flag peeking out from behind an extensive collection of boulders: white on black, a fist squeezing a snake.

Muttering, “And I hear herb gathering is a thankless job,” I lean over the side of the right boulder. The camp sits in a small clearing. The hillside at its back is carved into high vertical blocks. Nobody can sneak up on the not-bandits from that direction. Or from any other direction, for that matter, since the camp’s location smack-dab in the middle of the path between rock walls provides excellent visibility to whoever stands watch.

“Great!” I conclude my survey. “Frontal assault it is.” Well, for most of us. Varric’s just going to puff in a cloud of black smoke and stick his _literal_ bolt — mind, get out of the gutter! — in some unlucky sod’s soft and vulnerable part. Fine by me. As has grown into a habit, I cast a barrier over our group while we are still close to each other.

I turn to Cas with a half-smile on my face. “Attack?”

“Attack.” She nods, matching my expression.

Taking a running start, we charge into the open. Almost immediately one of the not-bandits shouts in alarm, alerting the others to the inevitability of their impending doom. He screams, “We are und—” and shuts up, biting his tongue as currents of electricity make rounds through his body, blood trickling between his lips.

A warrior charges at Cas, meeting her halfway. Blades clash. That’s all the attention I’m willing to spare. Not going to be caught with my pants down and my ass up in the air, inviting to fuck me over, and not in a good way, _again_ , thanks. Instead of admiring Cas’ work, I set another archer on fire. He flares up like a bonfire liberally flavoured with gasoline. It’s quick and will cut the clean-up time. The downsides of this strategy, however, are the horrific screams of the dying man, who rolls on the ground, trying in vain to put out magical flames. I shudder and look away. _Also, lost profit,_ my inner voice points out. Ugh. But yes, there’s that.

Since no more archers appear, I focus on a warrior, freezing him on the spot. The spell flows like a charm, and with a thought, I overpower it to unbearable temperature. If I’m right, the not-bandit should be dead in a matter of moments. I look around. Varric and Solas took care of three more warriors as evident by the smashed and pincushioned corpses. A black-armoured figure streaks past the stone blocks, intent on fleeing into the ravine I somehow know lies behind them. A bolt puts a stop to his progress.

“That wasn’t all of them,” I say. Going by the number of pallets and sleeping bags, at least four more members of their crew are missing.

“I agree,” Cas says, unfurling a note she found under a flat and frankly incredibly sad pillow. “They must be hiding in the Rebel Queen’s Ravine.”

Ah, so that’s where the not-bandit was running.

“Another letter. This one is regarding patrol patterns.” Cas frowns, gaze darting over the lines of uneven script. Her tone hardens. “They want to keep the refugees away from the area.”

“Make it two.” Varric joins us with a note of his own. “This operation’s well organised and, if I’m to judge, equally well funded.”

“We should investigate the ravine,” Solas says.

I roll my eyes. Capitan Obvious strikes again. “Like it wasn’t our next stop.”

Barriers cast and weapons drawn, we creep through a gap between two hillsides carved into narrow stone blocks. Only four not-bandits loiter in the ravine, stocking a campfire and generally looking unconcerned with the world. One of them is a huge mountain of a man, easily as tall as I am and twice as wide. He’s the only one wearing a helmet — matte black, same as the rest of his armour.

I adopt my most commanding voice, which, as it turns out, sounds a little deeper, and bark, “Stop right there, you criminal scum!”

The not-bandits startle, honing in on me with identical expressions that say, _Is she out of her mind?_ A snort and a quiet mutter, “Only you, Shiny,” comes from somewhere ahead to my right. Then, one of the two archers bolts off the bench, shouting, “Kill the warrior!” like mages are nothing to worry about and nocks and looses an arrow. It bounces off Cas’ shield, and the fight is on.

Varric disposes of him while Cas tangles with the warrior toting a sword-shield combination. The man-mountain’s grunt is more of a roar. He hefts a big-ass maul — it’s taller than he is, seriously! — and goes straight for me. In a last hooray, the low sun casts a patch of light on his path. Its rays catch on the maul’s two snarling stone heads, snag on the sharp teeth, and glide to the massive counterbalance on the shaft’s end. The man stomps forth.

“Fucking hell.” The sight alone is enough to weaken my knees. I _rea-ally_ don’t want to test my barrier against his bloody inferiority complex of a weapon. I bet his dick is the smallest of them all. Lightning, then. That should do it. I nod and cast the spell, not quite believing it will work. The man might shrug it off and go on the offensive like that first berserker— He doesn’t. His muscles lock and, rooted to the spot, he convulses. It’s awful to watch, but I repeat, again and again, and envy his endurance as he shrugs off the effects and kicks up his pace in between my casting. The final bolt is a little too slow in coming. I’m running low on mana after the last two battles. By now, I’m pretty good with not overexerting myself, but it’s still a work in progress.

The man roars, his maul flies up. I backpedal. My grasp on magic evaporates along with my concentration. This is, however, not the biggest problem. I’m not gonna make it from under the swing in time.

Fear doesn’t get a chance to grip my insides: the maul freezes in the air. Ice encases my attacker from the snarling heads of his weapon to the heels of his boots. A rock makes the ground under my left foot uneven, and with a splash of my hands, I lose balance. The momentum carries me to the natural conclusion of the move.

“Good timing, Solas!” I stare at the glittering in the waning light sculpture. From down here, it looks incredibly menacing but also beautiful. Huh. I should have thought of Winter’s Grasp.

“I do what I can.” Solas sounds startlingly close, and I glance up. The angle of sunlight casts his features into contrasting shadows, sharply outlining his head and long, pointed ears. A thought pops into my head: _they do look like leaves._ Upon consideration, I don’t give it voice and wordlessly accept his help. Clasping my hand, he hauls me up.

A short survey of the loot brings us another letter.

“Maker damned fools!” Varric spits out. “They are mining red lyrium!”

I scan the message over his head. An organised party consisting of dwarven families, plural, hired bandits to keep their activities out of the public’s eye.

“Great. The idiots are distributing it like contaminated heroin in a trashy nightclub.” I scrub my face with a palm, sighing. “We’ll need to be on the lookout for that stuff. Send patrols here. Hey, can you reach the guild’s members? Put a word out that this shit is poisonous and whoever so much as touches it goes batfuck insane?”

Varric nods. “I will do what I can, but don’t hold much hope. Looks like they are determined to make a profit no matter what.”

I squeeze his shoulder. The level of tension drops a notch. “Someone will listen. It won't be for nothing.”

With a look of gratitude, he puts his hand on mine.

“This is a good place for a camp,” Cas says, interrupting the moment. Indeed, the ravine is out of the way, tall walls surrounding it on all sides. But instead of providing a sense of security, the stone is closing in on me. I shiver and glance at the sliver of the sky, feeling like I’m at the bottom of a well. Now that the sun has set, darkness descends rapidly. Soon, we’ll have to stumble along the road with makeshift torches and lighted staves. A wave of exhaustion crests over me just at thinking about the trek back to the Crossroads.

“All right, let’s stay here.”

The clean-up doesn’t take long. By luck, I draw the shittiest — third — shift and crawl into my sleeping bag without bothering to set up a tent. And no matter how uneasy I feel, I’m out like someone turned off the switch.

* * *

In the morning, when sun rays barely touch the horizon, we pack up and traipse to the elven widow’s house.

“No need to lose daylight,” Cas says to my complaints of an early rise.

We take an unconventional route. By which I mean that instead of following the roads, we cling to the hillside and visit every cave along the way. This tactic brings bountiful results: two apostate caches and a large deposit of drakestone.

The widow — _Maura_ , the name surfaces in my mind — opens the front door cautiously. Her eyes widen like she didn’t expect to see us so soon. Or at all.

“Good news! We found and killed the bastards, as promised.” I pull the velvet pouch out of my pocket. Her gaze slides to it. “Bad news. There are so many rings, it’d be impossible to track down their owners. Find your husband’s and take anything else you want.”

“I— Thank you.” She takes the pouch, riffles through it. Up above, long, low clouds drift like flattened and stretched cotton candies. Next to me, Cas stands motionless, waiting at as close to parade rest as the shield at her back allows: she keeps her hands on the hilt of her sword instead.

“Here,” Maura says, returning the pouch. The fingers of her other hand curl around a simple gold band. “Thank you for your assistance, again. Maker watch over you.”

“Gods be with you,” I return. She blinks, twice in quick succession. Yeah, when you think of a Herald of Andraste, you don’t imagine her pagan. I do so love blowing expectations to high heaven.

“You need to stop doing that,” Cas says as we back away. She is sporting only a mild frown, and her lips aren’t pressed together, so I’m not too worried she’s pissed off by my polytheism. “People expect you to believe in the Maker.”

I shrug. “People should expect less. It makes life more interesting.”

Cas sighs. “We — _you_ — are representing the Inquisition—”

“And?” I arch an eyebrow. “I don’t deny the existence of your god, do I?”

“Nor do you believe in him, I suspect.”

I have to grin. She does know me. “Naw, why would you say that?”

“The existence of the Maker is a theological matter, which cannot be proved or disproved,” Solas says, and his next words make me stop in my tracks and stare: “It is the perception of his worshipers that is important since the Inquisition draws support from them.”

I clutch at my heart, feigning a grave injury. “Et tu, Brutus? Varric, I beg you, tell me you support any of my quirky beliefs!”

“All right, Shiny” — he pats my arm — “I support them.”

“Thank you,” I say on an exhale, putting a lot of feelings in my tone.

The corners of his eyes crinkle, hinting at the humour otherwise hidden in his expression. “You make a good protagonist, and besides, I’m here to help close the Breach, not pamper to noble officials.”

“Uh!” With a disgruntled huff, Cas storms off, picking up speed, the sound of her footfalls especially pronounced like she is stomping on the faces of her enemies, and Varric chuckles. Not surprisingly, Cas reaches a man pacing along a low, crumbling stone wall first.

“Excuse me, have you seen another Inquisition scout? An elven woman, answers to Ritts?” he asks, pausing.

Cas growls in the negative.

“She’s investigating apostates in the area,” the man continues. “She should have reported back by now. I’m on duty here, or I’d go look for her.”

The rest of the group and I catch up. A hundred feet ahead, half-sunken into the earth, a fallen head of the dead prophet stares at the sky with huge unseeing eyes.

“If we meet her,” Cas says, “we will relate your concern.”

“Oh, look.” I point at the remains of a fort behind the scout. All that’s left is a part of a round tower, now a semicircle. “A good camp location. Cas, mark it up!” I say, bouncing toward the ruins.

Cas doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s a close thing.

* * *

“I have heard your books are very popular, Master Tethras,” Solas says a while later.

Varric sends him a guarded look. “I do all right.”

“I am glad of it.”

“Really? No sarcasm, no superior attitude?”

Solas regards him evenly. “We live in a dark and angry time, child of Stone. So much of what people believe has come crashing down. If you bring them a little peace with the worlds you make between the pages, you have done more than most.”

I turn to Cas, nudge her in the ribs — _Ow-ow-ow! My elbow!_ — and stage whisper, “I think he is a fellow fan.”

“And I think we should investigate this cave,” she says, staring straight ahead.

Judging by the wooden planks leading up to it and carts and a pick lying around, I’d bet good money on it being a mine. The glowing blue surface of the barrier covering the entrance is a spiralling mirror. A focused stream of fire makes it brittle. With a sound of glass breaking, it shatters into tiny pieces that dissipate not reaching the ground.

Inside, two shades spring to life as a deranged apostate — dirty clothes, matted hair,a maniacal gleam in his eyes; the whole stereotypical shebang — summons them from his spot at the back of the cave. We make short work of them all and spread out. There’s a large red lyrium growth in the furthest nook on the right.

“Probably drove him nuts,” I decide aloud. The growth pulses with eery light. It sparkles; the colour shifts inside the appendages of the crystalline thing, creating an impression of blood running through veins. It looks _alive_ and evil, unnatural. I shudder. “Although, you need to be a fruitcake, to begin with, to stay with such a lovely neighborino.” How anyone can willingly mine or _consume_ it, I can’t even start to comprehend.

Destroying it isn’t enough. In the interest of being thorough, I ask Solas to collapse the cave entrance.

“Is it true that the entire dwarven economy relies upon lyrium?” he asks Varric when the dust settles.

Varric’s right shoulder makes a minute twitch. “Mostly. We've got the nug market cornered as well.”

“And the dwarves of Orzammar have never studied lyrium?” Solas says. _An excellent question._

“If they have, they certainly haven't shared anything up here.” Giving the cave one last glance, Varric turns away. “Why?”

“It is the source of all magic, save that which mages bring themselves. Dwarves alone have the ability to mine it safely. I wondered if they had sought to learn more.”

“The folks back in Orzammar don't care much about anything but tradition,” Varric replies, tone like a sackful of lemons.

“A pity,” I say. “We could use a little more intel just about now.”

* * *

After climbing a tower with a lot of mabaris in decor and crossing a wooden bridge, we get to the hill where the Winterwatch Tower reveals itself as a fort fallen into disrepair. Its left tower has partly collapsed. The walls framing the path leading to the gate are missing big chunks of stone. The portcullis is down, covering the remaining one-fourth of a door.

“I sense another elven artefact nearby,” Solas says out of nowhere.

“Good. Because I don’t feel a damn thing, aside from hunger and the chill on my back. When will I get new garb, Cas?”

“As soon as the merchants find something to fit your stature,” she says, voice dry as dirt under our feet.

I frown. “Damn, that can be either never or not in my lifetime.”

“Don’t be so glum, Shiny. I’ve already ordered you a cloak from a local seamstress. It won’t be so fine as your current, but she can repair it later.”

I send Varric a look full of admiration, imagining myself a cartoon character with hearts beating in my eyes. “You are a marvel!”

One corner of his mouth tugs up. “And don’t you forget it.”

“I know you,” a woman says, accompanying it with a sceptical once-over. Dressed in a long dress with elaborate ornaments on the sleeves and waist and a belt with a large oval buckle that can stop a bullet in its tracks, she stands outside the portcullis. _Weaponless_. Moronic, if you ask me, given the crime rate and danger levels. “You are the one they call ‘the Herald of Andraste’ for what you did in Haven. But are you? The Maker hasn’t told me.”

“Speak with him often, are you?” Before she can take offence, I add, “I’ve no idea, but someone saw fit to give me this” — I flash my palm, and it turns green like on command. If I’m doing it, it’s not a conscious decision — “to seal the rifts. So.”

The woman’s severe expression stays put. “Prove it. Show me that the rifts bend to your will, the will of the Maker. Show me the power you wield.”

Crazy or not, business is business. “You’ve got something nearby?”

As it turns out, not only do they have a rift — in their basement, no less — but the cult congregating in this fort is worshipping the bloody thing. What the actual fuck?!

“What next? Sacrificing virgins and newborns to demons?”

Solas shrugs. “I suppose, it was inevitable that some people would take solace in thinking it is the will or their Maker.”

“No, I get there are ‘the end is nigh’ types. Just didn’t expect to meet them here.”

A statue of a woman with a sword and a shield in her hands and a face so fugly she can’t be Andraste — though the ‘halo’ behind her suggests otherwise — is the centrepiece of the courtyard and the local forum. Nobles and peasants alike mill around, chatting or listening in on conversations. Tattered, faded Ferelden banners sway on the gentle wind up on the battlement connecting the farthest towers.

The rift is visible even from the gate — a green glow emanating from the opposite side of the fort. We march there, going through a passage with statues of grave men hiding their faces in their hands, crying or despairing. People in what I recognise as clerical robes of this cult kneel before them, praying.

I stride down the steps and get bowled over in the middle of the long and hard staircase. Thank gods I have a barrier. Bruised tailbone is nothing compared to what I’d have gotten without its protection. A distinctive feeling of dread settles in.

“Fucking terrors.” Lesser terrors, but still. _Unpleasant_.

Not getting up, I turn and jam my staff’s blade into the demon’s stomach, preventing it from teleporting, and send a load of lightning down its gullet. The thing shrieks. I add more mana to the spell and watch Cas cut it down severing its back. The terror disintegrates into green mist that gets sucked into the rift. Behind Cas, Solas has frozen the demonic version of a grasshopper who jumped Varric, and Varric is peppering it with explosive bolts. Silently, Cas gives me a hand up.

The next batch consists of _three_ terrors. I get to watch them appear, so without further ado, I freeze the first one the moment it materialises in full. A stone fist shatters it to smithereens. While I’m busy dealing with that fucker, the second jumps Cas, appearing behind her back. She must have an extra pair of eyes or preternatural senses because she turns her shield in time to block an incoming tail. Since Varric and Solas deal with the third and final demon just fine on their own, I lend my assistance to her.

Time to try out a new spell. Scraping the memory bank for an incantation that goes along with intent, I think the words and imagine the desired effect. Not sure about the rifts, but the magic bends to my will without a hitch. Lines of white light encase the demon in a cage; hoops of the same light run from the ground up in rhythmical pulses. The demon freezes. Can’t be certain with that parody of an octoface, but I think it’s hurting. I hope it does. Either way, Cas finishes it with her sword while the terror is paralysed.

With no new threats, I close the rift in a practised move.

“Crushing Prison? This is a new one,” Solas comments.

“Expanding my repertoire. Thought I’d put to use my theoretical knowledge.”

“You’ve been avoiding glyphs.”

“Have I?” I think back to the last couple of day. Hm. “Indeed. That’s a lapse. Will try to cast ’em more often.”

“Does anybody else smell that?” Varric wrinkles his nose. “Seriously? Just me?”

“If you mean sulphuric stench mixed with ozone, then yes, I smell it too. Same goes for dog fur, shit, and sweat. Those are kinda commonplace around here.”

“I was talking about the smell of demonic leftovers, but thanks for reminding me of the famous Ferelden qualities.”

I sketch him a bow. “You are welcome. Also, aside from fur, _I_ was talking about people.”

The disgusting sludge the rift left behind is Spirit Essence. I grimace but dutifully gather it into a stray piece of cloth. Another one, Solas is quick to educate me, is Lightning Essence, which, at least, reminds me of the air after a storm and not something less appetising. An image of wet asphalt and a laughing face of a young girl, a strand of blonde hair plastered across her forehead and freckled nose, overlays the dwarven statues. Before I can focus on the details, it dissolves like the terrors we destroyed.

The place we are in is not so much a basement as a backyard with bare earth as a floor and familiar stone pillars forming a square room. A massive breach in the roof allows sunlight in. Sunbeams, filtered through the foliage and tree roots coiling down like lianas, catch dust particles and dry leaves lifted in the air during our fight. It’s pretty in here with the green menace gone.

Walking into the courtyard, I notice a notable shift in the atmosphere. Not ten minutes ago, people were reassuring each other about their safety. And now, they are celebrating. Smiles and friendly expressions greet us at every turn. “The Inquisition is here!” “The Herald has closed the rift!” “We are saved!” are the prevailing exclamations. In a way, it makes me responsible for them, too. _And the weight keeps piling on._

The reverential stares from the clerical part of the cult, however, are harder to stomach. I feel like a slab of meat on a platter of a hungry cannibal, ready to tuck in. To avoid them, I follow my nose and duck into the right wing of the fort where a drinking establishment sprawls over two storeys.

Smells of strong spirits waft through the doorway all the way to the front gate. I guess, everyone nowadays has a reason to get shit-faced. A couple of enormous barrels lies under the staircase to the second floor to accommodate the demand. On the first floor, people in less pretentious attire occupy two of the three available tables that can seat six, or eight if there were more chairs. A friendly waitress deftly deposits tankards for the chatting patrons. The abundance of space and fresh air — thanks to a hole in the wall over the stairs — coupled with the crackling of the fire and the warm lighting makes this place actually nice.

“If you see my beloved, tell her I’m waiting for her,” comes a voice of a young man as we climb up. As soon as my eyes are over the floor level, I spot its owner accosting another tavern-goer on his way out. He’s a nobleman for it’s impossible to take him for a peasant or a well-off farmer, not in that garb. The material of his robe is of the best quality I’ve seen on any of the cultists. Treated with golden thread and trimmed with fur, I’d say his ensemble’d fetch enough to feed an average Fereldan family for a month. So: noble. A handsome one, too. Barely in his twenties, with a strong, lightly stubbled jaw, full lips, and straight nose. His only flaw is a frankly appalling haircut. The short patch left on the top of his head is like a dark island on his shaved skull.

“And how would I know her from a sack of grain?” I mutter without thought as an answer to his plea.

“Well, she is his beloved, Shiny,” Varric says, glancing around and making a quick assessment of the place, “so, at a guess, she’s female shaped and probably somewhat attractive.”

The left corner of my mouth turns up. “That’s assuming he’s into females and not grain sacks.”

Varric snorts. “You know how to paint an enticing image.”

“Lady Vellina should be here,” the nobleman says as we draw closer. “We need to be together when the Maker comes.”

“Oh, look, he’s also a cultist.” I can’t quite contain a shudder. “Wonderful.”

Despite my expectations, the second floor is no more crowded than the first. Several couples sit at the tables for four, others just stand around the room or enjoy the excellent view of the courtyard and the mountain behind the fort from the wooden balcony. A dark green rug runs from the stairs to the three enormous barrels propping the far wall under a tapestry of a pissed-off bull. I think. It can as well be a shitty depiction of a mabari.

“How does your lady love look like?” I ask, jumping to the heart of the matter. Screw the pleasantries. “We might have seen her on the way here.”

“She has the most beautiful blue eyes,” the nobleman says, going starry-eyed, “and her luscious blonde hair flow in golden waves to her waist.”

Not a very helpful description. “Anything else?”

“She promised to wear my favourite cloak, the colour of forget-me-nots with a fennec fur trimming.”

 _Oh, fuck._ The merriment of moments before drains away. My mood goes down with the grace of a lead balloon. I'm a complete and utter asshole. Going by the rate of Varric’s expression turning sombre, his thoughts mirror mine.

“I'm sorry. We passed her body earlier today. Bandits got to her first.” I swallow, watching the man pale. “We’ve given her the last rite and a nice funeral. With flowers,” I add. It seemed a small thing at the time. She was so young, younger than her Romeo. The first sight of her, hair splayed out like a halo around a pallid face, made me stumble over nothing. My heart lodged in my throat, I took off at a run to get a good look at her features. I didn’t recognise her, of course, but she reminded me of someone. The loss of a bunch of embriums wasn’t that big of a deal, anyway.

“But… We are meant to be together.” The nobleman’s eyes glisten with a sheen of tears. “The Maker wouldn’t keep us apart!”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat inanely. What else can I say to that? Shouldering off my backpack, I fish out a deep blue ribbon and a golden ring on a black leather string. The ring was hidden under her clothes. Probably the only reason whoever killed her didn't take it. “Here. We were hoping to find a family member, so…” I shrug. “I think it should belong to you.”

“What am I to do now?” Resembling a lost puppy, he looks at the keepsakes in his hand. They have no answer. I do.

“You can join the Inquisition. Fight for the side of the angels. We need people who want to make Thedas a better and safer place.”

He nods. “Yes, I will do that. I and my men will join your cause, Herald. Lord Berand, at your command.” He bows, fist to heart, and I return the gesture, wondering, why the hell didn’t he arrange an escort for his girlfriend if he has warriors at his disposal?

Leaving Cas to speak logistics, I venture forth. A fat crow perches on the balcony railing. It caws, flapping inky wings, when I stop beside it. One beady, black eye glares at me, daring to encroach on the bird’s territory. Since there is a distinct lack of elves, I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender, intent on returning inside.

“Fine, fine. You may keep your place.”

“Her-rald,” the bird says, startling me into flinching, “of Andr-raste.”

Spinning so fast I almost tumble over the railing, I shout, “Wait,” but the raven has already taken flight, and all I’m left to do is watch it become a smaller smudge against the backdrop of pine trees and blue sky.

“Did you hear it?” I ask Varric, whom I see in the doorway as soon as I turn around.

“Hear what?” Taking in my agitated state, Varric raises his eyebrows.

I jerk my head to the side, hoping to unscramble my brain into order. “Nothing.”

“Come. A hot meal is what you need right now, and yours truly has already arranged it.” He smirks. “It’s your favourite — a mystery stew.”

“Thanks, Varric. You are a true friend. If I die of food poisoning after consuming undercooked rat, I’ll make sure Cas blames it on you.”

“Anything for the Herald.”

“But no sexual favours.” I nudge his shoulder.

“Alas, that is off the table.”

I sigh. “Fine, continue to ruin my dreams.”

* * *

After looking at everyone on the ground level and asking every male elf if he left a mother with a lung decease at the Crossroads, I finally find Hyndel in the opposite wing. He isn’t the only elven cultist either. We have to climb a precarious ladder to the top floor and walk around the piles of rubble on the crumbling battlement to reach him, and the asshole has the gall to disbelieve my words.

“Look,” I say, glaring him into shutting up. The man’s — boy’s, really — ears twitch and droop at the tips. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not. We got your mother her medicine and brought you the news. What you do now — break her heart by staying here or not — is up to you.”

He sputters, but I’m in no mood to listen.

“My task is done. Good luck communicating with the Maker.”

With the last meaningful glare, I stride off. It would be even more impressive and pointed if there wasn’t so much broken masonry. Kinda hard to look majestic when your nose damn near ploughs the ground, but I manage.

“Varric, I’ve noticed you haven’t mentioned yourself in the Tale of the Champion,” Cas says a couple of minutes later, trailing in my pissed-off wake as we traverse a passage back to the right wing.

Varric _hmms_ , glancing at her sideways. “I don't want to bore people.”

“You don't want to incriminate yourself, you mean.”

“Oh, same thing really.”

“Nah, that’s not it.” I slow down and give him a knowing look. “You are just too modest.”

“Who, me?” Varric’s eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. “Have you met me? You must be thinking of a different dwarf.”

“Nuh-uh. Deny all you want, cupcake, but the thought of a horde of screaming fangirls racing after you, waving their smalls like flags, to pet your chest hair scares you to the Void.”

Lifting his shoulders, he swallows, a distant look in his eyes. “That… is a disturbing prospect.”

* * *

On a balcony of another tower, an elven artefact rests on a low accent table like a cheap vase. In the daylight, the gunmetal grey stone of its body seems cold and industrial, especially in contrast with the warm bronze of its stand. If I didn’t know it belongs to a different culture, one glance at its angular form would have clued me in, though I’d guess dwarven.

“What, they thought it’s a sculpture?” I give activating it a try. A little magical nudge lights the thing in a yellowish-green halo, iridescent currents not unlike lightning run over the whole sphere, crackling.

“Excellent.” Solas actually smiles. “Now if you find another artefact without me, you can activate it yourself.”

“I feel so proficient. Sure, I won’t have a problem making it work.” I pause and, layering my voice with a thick slab of sarcasm, add, “If I ever stumble over it. In a dark cave or something equally ill-illuminated. My poor toes.”

* * *

Back in the courtyard, the woman from the gate, the cult leader, mentions Maker’s tears and introduces herself as Speaker Anais.

“Is there a Listener?” I arch an eyebrow.

“We all listen for the word of the Maker,” she says and then proceeds to offer their service.

I think about it, confer with the group, and decide: “Have your people help the refugees, spread the word of the Inquisition, and gather any secrets or information pertinent to our cause.” Why choose when you can have everything, right?

“As you say, Herald. We will do our part, and when the Maker calls you to your great purpose, remember that we served you and meet us at his side,” Speaker Anais intones, solemn like a gravestone.

“Sure.” I nod and wave in farewell, and, turning, mutter under my breath, “I’ll even say hi for you to Andraste when we have a tea party.”

“Herald,” Cas says with extreme reproach.

“What, you don’t think the Lady Prophet likes tea? No problem, I’ll bring wine. Or not. She was a slave, right? And a barbarian. Hmm…” I pause and tap my lips with a finger. “Varric, make sure to get more moonshine just in case!”

With a huff, Cas throws her hands up. “You are impossible.”

“Not true. I’m here, aren’t I? Therefore, possible!” I bite my lower lip to keep from laughing at her frustrated expression. “Just not very probable.”

Cas makes a face like she’s naming her hellish headache after me and speeds up, putting six feet between us. Still together, but with enough space to distance herself. She’s in a mood, all right, and I’m not even sure it has anything to do with me in the first place. As we clear the gate, I glance at Varric, who shrugs in response, as if to say, ‘How should _I_ know?’

“Hey—” I start, but the sounds of a commotion snatch my attention. Honing in on the angry voices, I jump over the lowest part of the wall on our right. A short distance ahead, near the cliff, an Inquisition archer fends off a trio of templars hurling insults about consorting with blood mages or some such. I don’t really listen. What can I say? I see one of my people in trouble, and that won’t do.

I hit the ground before her feet with the Glyph of Repulsion, and the tin cans sail backwards like they are tied to an elastic band stretched too far. It gives the archer a chance to use her bow as intended and not as a blunt instrument of dubious reliability against sharp steel. With the addition of my team’s firepower, the templars expire rather fast.

“Thank you,” the archer says. “They came out of nowhere, looking for apostates. I simply got in the middle of it.” Her voice is unsteady, and her fingers tighten and loosen their hold of her bow. Her gaze skitters around the clearing and arrives at the body of a mage lying on a blanket slowly turning pink with her blood. Beside the dead woman are an overturned picnic basket and two metal goblets. A dark green glass bottle is spilling its content, dyeing the last unstained grey corner a rich burgundy.

I lower my head. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The archer startles but doesn’t deny the obvious. “I, um, maybe was passing the time with Eldredda.”

“Do you want our help with the funeral?”

“I— No, thank you, Herald.” She swallows.

I turn to go, then stop, regarding her in a new light. I’m making her nervous, and not because of my rumoured close to divine status. “Are you Ritts, by any chance?”

Her back tenses into wooden rigidity. “Yes, ser.”

 _Investigating apostates_ , was she? Cas frowns and opens her mouth, but I shake my head. While shirking her duties isn’t something to overlook, Ritts did lose her lover only minutes ago, and Cas would chew her into a paste. “We’ll let your partner know you are fine.”

Not meeting my eyes, Ritts stutters, “At first, Eldredda was just an apostate who didn’t shoot at me, and then, well… Are you going to report me?”

“Not this time.”

Varric shifts. Glancing at him, I inch my chin down in a minuscule gesture.

“Look, kid,” he says, “if you can talk an apostate out of her pants in the middle of a war, you have a gift. Use it. Gather information, use that ability to do good.”

“All right.” Ritts’ expression brightens a smidgen. “Thanks for not reporting me in.”

“Just so we are clear,” I say, and she tenses back. “You get a free pass only once. Don’t let me down.”

Ritts nods, her head bobbing up and down like Chinese porcelain figurine’s. “Yes, ser. Sorry, ser. I won’t, ser.”

I pitch the timbre of my voice low. “I will know if you do.”

Whatever she makes of it, Ritts pales. Good.

From where we stand, I see part of the valley below, and what would be there if not a green halo of a rift? I wander to the edge and point at it.

“You said something about the Veil in the area being stronger now, Solas?”

“It must have appeared before we activated the artefact.”

“Mm. As long as you are sure they actually work.” I sigh and instead of trekking back to the bridge, choose a convenient sloping path. Flat stepping stones placed a foot apart and framed with the dwarven variation of garden gnomes form stairs.

The mist around the rift shifts, dissipating and expanding as the hourglass-shaped tear rotates. Interestingly, it hangs directly in the middle of two rows of columns with fire burning in braziers on top of them. We meander closer. It won’t activate till we are in proximity, and for once, I see no reason to rush into battle.

“Nice weather, isn’t it?”

“Good for sunbathing,” Varric agrees with a half-smile. The temperature dropped sometime during the night, and now our breaths cloud in the air.

I chuckle, pick a tune at random, start whistling. After the second rendition, I recognise it as Genghis Khan, mentally shrug, and murmur the words along with the melody.

The rift coalesces into a crystal and spits two wraiths, backing them up with a pile of lava. A rage demon. How wonderful. If the books didn’t lie, now all three are immune to fire. Nice of my staff to have the affinity with a different type of magic.

A barrier. A Winter’s Grasp at the first wraith, simultaneous with Solas’ aimed at the second. Varric and Cas choose their targets and get on destroying them without delay. As a team, we work so well, it’s like we are in tune.

“To hell with you, motherfucker!” I scream at the rage demon, snowballing it with blasts of ice. Out of all our enemies, it’s in the least hurry to be slain. While the surface of its body cools, it takes actual freezing to stop. A glittering cage holds the demon in place. As one, we gang up on it and smash the rage into tiny icicles.

I throw my marked hand up, and what da ya know, the green fucking crystal spews the second party. At first, I mistake it for identical with the previous, but as I renew the barrier, I spot two shades drifting in my direction and the third wraith.

“Why so many all at once?” I mutter, drawing a glyph. Is the tear widening? What changed?

Focusing on blasting the shades, I fail to notice the rage until the smell of scorched earth and waves of heated air get too close to comfort. I turn and here it is, rising sharp-clawed appendages for a swipe at my precious and entirely flammable self. At this distance, it’s hard to miss the resemblance of the shape of its head with that of a krogan. Rage’s serpentine body is weirdly defined — chiselled muscles of torso and arms and sinews with veins of cooling black make way for a piling mass of layered lava-like substance where legs should be. All in all, this demon is a lot less ugly than many of its brethren, but just as — if not more — deadly.

Frantically gathering mana for a Winter’s Grasp, I back up a few steps. The demon’s arms descend, meeting the resistance of my barrier. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cas sprinting to my aid, but the shades I haven’t finished get in her way. My barrier pops at the same time as I finish the spell. Ice crusts over the rage. A green energy ball hits my chest.

A wave of weakness crashes me like I’m a pebble in a storm. I lower my staff, unable to keep it aloft. The barrier I manage feels like it won’t hold against a prick of a paperclip, let alone a demonic assault.

“Back me up!” Cas shouts. A shade and a wraith are pushing her backwards, herding her to the walking volcano barf. A fine tremor in her arms says all I need to know about the progression of that fight.

Solas and I cover her with barriers at the same moment, his reinforcing mine. Turning to my opponent, I catch it shaking off the last of the melting ice that sploshes to the scorched earth and starts to evaporate. Fine. A quick gesture sends a glyph under its… Base? It’s sure as hell not a tail — too short for that. In any case, the rage crawls onto the glyph, but the thing with wraith’s magic is that it influences every aspect it possibly can. Instead of going airborne, the demon slides about five feet back.

“A little help here?” Feeling the strength of my paper-thin protection draining away, I renew it and switch to the snowballs. I might as well fling mosquitoes for all the damage they cause. A shift in the Fade — _Wha—?! Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!_ — and the rage pulls magic around itself like a cloak. The next snowball hits a wall and dissipates without reaching the demon. For a long moment, I stare at it like a total imbecile, my mind completely blank. It has created its own barrier. How in the world is this fair?!

The fucking bastard goes right at me. I trace glyphs, laying paralysis before repulsion, turn tail and _hobble_ in the other direction, my legs doing a decent impersonation of overcooked spaghetti. Fifteen steps in, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. My stomach drops. With glacial slowness, I turn back, using my staff as a prop. And come face to fugly mug with a shade. It screeches and swipes at my chest. I lean backwards. Not far enough. The sharp points of the claws rip my barrier along with my clothes, all the way through. It stings. Thank gods, Harritt, and whatever animal had so graciously donated its hide for my coat, the shade reached only the surface layer of my skin.

A sudden increase in strength brings a smile to my lips.

“My turn,” I say, baring my teeth in a feral grin, and jab the bladed end of my staff into the shade’s midriff while casting a lightning bolt with my other hand. Impaled on the metal, the demon convulses; its outstretched arms twitch as it attempts — and fails — to reach me.

In the background, Cas, having shaken off the effect of the wraith’s magic as well, hacks at the rage, dismantling its barrier for Solas to freeze the fucker. _Excellent! One less to worry about._

The shade shudders and dissipates right off my staff. And then, it’s over. Jogging to the rift, I close it. The accompanying whining sound, which I habitually tune out, breaks off like an aborted dial-up connection. There’s a pile of dark purple goo left behind — Shadow Essence. I pull a face but dutifully gather it up.

Cas is cleaning her blade with a piece of brown cloth. There is a smear of blood on her cheek, half an inch above her old scar. Her hair is singed at the ends, but otherwise, she appears unharmed. Solas is fine, if ruffled, and Varric—

“Where is Varric?”

Cas’ head shoots up. She glances around, turns to Solas. “Wasn’t he with you?”

“Master Tethras disappeared before I joined your fight with the rage demon,” Solas says. “I assumed he went to help the Herald.” His voice is calm, but he also looks at the battlefield. The wide, empty road lying between a hill and a mountain doesn’t offer many hiding places.

My heart drops into my stomach as images of Varric’s broken body — torn apart with sharp claws or burned to a crisp in a gout of unnaturally hot fire — assault my inner eye.

“I’m here,” comes a croak from somewhere to the left. I hurry there, assuming the worst.

Varric is on the ground, leaning against the base of a column. Blood spurts out of a deep gash in his abdomen, no longer even soaking the shredded remains of his shirt. _His perfect abs are in danger!_ A bottle of elfroot in hand, he pours its content on the wound. The tissues are slow to knit.

“It’s just a scrape,” he rasps as I dive to my knees, heedless of the pain of impact.

“Merely a flesh wound, is it?” Pulling bandages, waterskin, and more healing potion out of my backpack, I swat his hands away, discard my gloves, and get to work, cleaning his skin as close to the edges of the wound as I dare. Flinching, Varric hisses through his teeth. A glimpse at his internal organs raises bile to the back of my throat. I swallow it down.

“Varric?” Cas asks. I spare her a glance. Her face’s even paler than Varric’s.

“I’m all right, no need to fret.”

“Of course, you are,” I mutter, pouring the potion down his throat and tasting copper on my tongue. Funny how all blood, regardless of race, smells almost the same. Mine has an undertone I’m not sure about. “You aren’t allowed to be anything else.” His blood keeps on pouring out.

Solas kneels beside me, and finally, with a nudge of healing magic, the internal damage begins to repair. We watch Varric’s injury in reverse.

“Well” — Varric picks a piece of crimson silk, stained and ripped beyond any hope of salvaging — “shit. This shirt was my favourite. At least, the blood might come out of the sash.”

I smack his shoulder. Without force, of course. Just to make a point. “That’s for not wearing armour, you fucking idiot! We are buying you a proper blighted coat that will meet over your perfect fucking chest hair. And you will button it down before a fight because if you don’t, I’ll stuff you into bloody buggering plate mail!” — out of the corner of my eye, I see Cas nodding along — “And add a fade-touched silverite chastity belt just for the hell of it.” She nods, catches on to the meaning of my words, and blushes scarlet. A rare smirk touches Solas’ face.

“All right, Shiny.” Varric raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Anything you say.”

“Why didn’t _you_ say something?”

He shrugs and winces as the move pulls at his new skin. “Everyone was busy.”

“Next time, don’t be stupid. Holler like a fishwife.” I sigh, bunching up the dirty linen strips, and gather empty potion bottles. “You know, I’ll be the happiest camper in the world as soon as we close the Breach and these fucking rifts stop appearing.”

“Hear, hear.” Varric smoothes a hand over the bandages on his stomach, sighs too, and goes for his backpack.

I wander off a ways and, holding my waterskin between my teeth, wash my hands as he changes clothes. Red specks stubbornly cling to the creases in my palms. I rub them extra hard until my skin darkens to deep Davy’s grey. When I finish and put everything away, Varric asks,

“You all right?”

“Fine.”

He nods. “All right.”

We walk in the direction of the Crossroads.

“So, who do you think is the toughest: Josephine, Leliana, or Cassandra?” he says.

Cas glares at him. She's been doing it extra hard for the last five or so minutes, to compensate for the concern she’s shown earlier. “I’m right here, you know.”

“That doesn't rule you out, Seeker.”

“Cullen's not up for consideration?” Solas asks.

Varric chuckles. “Curly? They just keep him around to look pretty.”

“I’m pretty sure any of them can hand you your asses.” I smile at Cas and see her lips twitch. “But if I have to choose? Leliana.”

Varric nods, a contemplating expression on his face, and even Cas agrees.

A chance glance up reveals what resembles a giant swing on the hill we so recently vacated.

“Let’s check it out.” I point at the structure, then look at Varric. Despite our best efforts, he is by no mean back to full health. A thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead. The way he holds himself is too careful and deliberate. His smiles don’t negate the lines forming around his lips when he grits his teeth. I frown at him. “Not you, though. You take a break and think of all the awesome action you’re putting into that book you aren’t writing.” He opens his mouth — to agree or argue — but I plough on, regardless. “Cas’ll keep you company. You can discuss the plot or something.” Varric takes a breath, and I add, “Create a romance arc together.” I waggle my eyebrows and leave to the sounds of Cas’ sputtering and Varric’s coughing fit.

When we are out of earshot — I still hear their voices, but the words are merging into an indistinguishable buzz — Solas says, “That was kind of you,” with the slightest hint of surprise in his tone.

I raise an eyebrow. What, did he expect me to drag my injured friend up the fucking Eiffel Tower worth of steps? Just out of curiosity to see a new sight? Damn, what a low opinion he must have of me. I lift my chin. “I’m not actually an asshole.” Most of the time and rarely to important to me people, I should hope.

We reach out destination in silence.

On closer examination, the structure is a _really_ creepy altar with a thankfully wooden ribcage hanging off a… hm… I’d say an idol of a bearded, moustachioed man in a crown suspended on chains between two carved pillars that look pagan in design. Statues of mabari in BDSM collars sit guard on either side of them.

A templar is lying on the ground between fruit baskets full of slightly withered and frost-bitten apples. Going by the smell, he’s been here for at least a couple of days.

“If I have somehow offended you, I apologise,” Solas says, at last, his voice and posture stiff like he’s walking the plank off a pirate ship. “That was not my intention.”

Huh. Nice to have a confirmation him being a condescending prick is a natural, easy as breathing state of affair. And I thought he’s thawing out.

“Kudos to you. Now, you can either stand around or help me search the body.” I crouch beside the corpse to go through his possessions; Solas chooses to riffle through a backpack lying nearby. “Damn. I’d like one day— scratch that, one bloody hour without stumbling upon the dead.”

“With the rifts closed and the Inquisition patrolling the area, it might happen,” Solas offers, moving to examine the shrine.

“Nah, we’ll be out of the Hinterlands too soon for our soldiers to finish the clean-up.”

Of all the worldly possessions I expect to find, a tiny vial of dark glass filled with — I uncork it and sniff — blood is the last on my mind. A letter to Ellendra, a mage staying at the Crossroads, confirms that it’s a phylactery.

“How hypocritical, the Templar Order using blood magic. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“The ones in power often use all available tools at their disposal to remain in their position,” Solas says.

Pocketing the empty bottle of poison that fell beside the body, I sigh and stand up.

After a quick foray for wood, we give the templar to the fire. My mouth recites all the correct words on autopilot. This man took his own life so he wouldn’t harm innocents or the woman he loved when his mind was slipping. He deserved respect.

Rest — of Cas’ presence — did Varric’s complexion some good. When we return, his cheeks have more colour, though it could be the fault of the exchange I catch. Cas — quite sincerely, I might add — asks about Prince Sebastian invading Kirkwall. Predictably, Varric doesn’t take well to the reminder and snaps back. So when Solas and I walk up to them, Varric is glaring daggers at Cas, who's studiously examining the scenery like the rocky hillside is the most riveting view she’s ever come across. Wonderful. At this rate, they are going to resort to literal hair pulling in a month, tops.

I clap my hands, startling them both, and announce in the most obnoxiously cheerful tone I can manage, “Break’s over. To the Crossroads we go!”

“Finally,” Varric grumbles. “I was starting to think you’d gotten mauled by a swarm of angry bees.”

“Without you to chronicle it? Never!”

* * *

Ellendra takes the news of her lover’s death with resignation. I’ve only seen her in passing and at a distance, and even then she didn’t look all that great. Now, the dark circles under her eyes are indistinguishable from bruises. I return her phylactery, the letter, and all of her paramour's belongings we managed to salvage, and recruit her as a — surprise, surprise — healer for the Inquisition. She promises to report to our forces in Haven since there are enough healers here for the infirmary to feel crowded.

Meandering through the village, I notice small changes. The refugees’ faces aren’t so gaunt anymore. No one is on the verge of fainting from hunger. Tents are crammed between houses, around the pond, and next to fortifications. Looks like Whittle worked hard, distributing the haul.

Finding Corporal Vale near the training dummies, I ask him to put a message out about all the trinkets I’ve gathered from corpses of non-combatants. Maybe their families will get a memento. And if not, the corporal can always sell everything to fund our fine organisation.

Cas has already finished with the maps — marked all points of interest for the scouts — and is waiting with a handful of scrolls in hand. The leather tube in her other hand is of the type Leliana’s ravens usually carry.

“Mail?”

“The Inquisition has been offered the service of a mercenary group.” Cas gives me an unfolded parchment, and I scan it. Leliana wants us to pick them up.

“Huh. I thought we’d go to Orlais next. Isn’t getting the Chantry’s support more important?”

She makes a put-upon expression. “The Chantry clerics can argue and squabble until Andraste's second coming. This is time sensitive — if we leave today, we will arrive there on the exact day they want us to.”

I shrug. “All right. Point me in the right direction, and I will follow you to the edge of the world.”

“That won't be necessary.” Cas looks at me sideways. “Though the Storm Coast is somewhat dreary and can be seen that way.”

I snort. “Yeah, I can imagine, with a name like that.”

We buy supplies — food and potions — and meet with Solas and Varric.

“Look at you, healthy and hale,” I say, sizing my favourite dwarf up. The pallor is gone. Cleaned up and out of the bandages, you’d never guess he was banging on death’s door so recently. The wonders of magical healing. A new forest green shirt makes the amber of Varric’s eyes brighter. I gesture at his coat. “Nice digs.” Though Varric keeps it open, it seems wide enough to do the job of protecting his front. A thin, almost invisible white line bisects his abs. Thinking of what it signifies, I shiver.

Oblivious to my thoughts, Varric looks at himself, a wry smile curving his lips. “Between that and a chastity belt, it wasn’t much of a choice.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some people find them kinky enough to try.”

Varric scrunches up his nose. “Not this dwarf.” And I laugh. All is as well as can be. With a lopsided grin, he presents me with my new clothes, so I change into another coat, too. It fits well enough.

The hardest part is saying goodbye to Groot. We’ve been apart only a day and a half, and I already miss him. So when I tell him he’s to stay with Keith for a while longer and his branches droop like he is about to collapse under the weight of despair, only Cas’ resolute refusal to bring him along allows me to remain firm in that decision.

“Aw, my precious little tree. Don't be sad. It’s not for long. As soon as it gets warmer high up in the mountains — in a month or three — I’ll take you to Haven. Besides, you won't be able to keep up with a horse, will you? I’ll be sure to find you a cart for the trip.” I pat Groot’s trunk extra affectionately. The branches lift up, and after a moment, a flower falls onto my palm.

“Thank you, sunshine.” My heart swells like I’m a Grinch — three times its size — and a lump lodges in my throat, making it hard to swallow. “I will treasure it forever and miss you till we meet again.”

I descend the stairs without a glance back. It would only make the situation harder. Cas, waiting at the base of the staircase, blinks several times, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“Admit it, you’ll miss it too.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Groot grows on you, sweetheart. No need to deny it, I should know.” I bump her shoulder, and together, we climb the road to the former forward camp. Scout Harding went to the Coast ahead of us to establish a new forward camp.

I greet Handsome Jack with a hug and an apple. “Missed me, buddy?”

The horse snorts, munching his treat. I take it as agreement.

I’m about to get into the saddle, mentally fortifying myself for the return of the pain, when a soldier stops me. With dishwater hair, mousy moustache, an average height and physique, he’s wholly unremarkable, bland like an unsweetened oatmeal. The type of man you won’t be able to pick out of a police lineup.

“Herald,” he says, inclining his head and lowering his green eyes, the only remarkable detail, and thrusts a small cloth sack into my hands. “Commander Cullen has us scouring the Hinterlands for supplies for you. There’s not much to gather, but this might be of help.”

 _The commander thought about me._ Well, duh. It’s his job. Nevertheless, a strange warmth fills my chest, coalesces into a ball in my stomach. “Thank you.” I consider adding something profound, but nothing comes to mind. “I’m sure whatever you found will be of use.”

Inside the sack is a pouch with a handful of gold coins, a lot of bottles with healing potion, and a glimpse of something dark at the bottom. I shift the bottles out of the way and bring the sack closer to my face. Stuck between the threads by its tip is a long inky feather.

When I look up a moment later, a female scout is carrying a bundle of arrows without fletching to a table with all kinds of incomplete weapons. Another scurries by with an armload of scrolls. But the green-eyed soldier has disappeared without a trace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, again. RL is keeping me extremely busy and somewhat depressed. Not sure I like how this chapter turned out, but I'm at the point where it's either post or delete it with no back-ups in a fit of frustrated, editing-induced rage. There's a hope I'll finish next chapter faster.
> 
> Ritts was totally going to run off like she did in the game before Adaar suggested a funeral.
> 
> Fade-touched lazurite increases max stamina by 15 points. ;)


End file.
